High Society
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: Charlie is thoroughly whumped by FraidyCat and Serialgal as he explores a world he has never known before. When he returns to the fold, what and who will be left? Now Rated M. Sadly, this ends our ride.
1. In Retro

**Title: ****High Society**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** _(a) a denial or disavowal of legal claim… (b) a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer…_ Definition courtesy Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam Company, Springfield, MA, U.S.A. Copyright 1979. COLLEGIATE is a registered trademark. **Furthermore,** NUMB3RS is a trademark of CBS Studios Inc. TM, © and ® by Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved. _High Society_, a Rabid Raccoons production, is not recommended for young children. This disclaimer applicable to _High Society_ in its entirety. The corporation known as "Rabid Raccoons" further disavows claim to any or all fan fictional works attributed to FraidyCat and/or Serialgal. At this point we also deny any connection to unsolved federal crimes. The compilation of this disclaimer took longer than the story you are about to read.

**Add'l A/N:** Rabid Raccoons exists to push envelopes; to cross lines. In this fic, they will be crossed. If you decide you'd like to stagger along with us, we suggest alerting this story; the rating will soon change to "M", and we'd hate for you to get lost! The story is 49 chapters long, and we plan Monday and Thursday postings. Settle in for a ride.

(Those of you waiting for Part 3 of the _Mistaken Identity_ series, rest assured that it is marinating as we speak. Don, Ana, Charlie and Lydia requested a little time alone to develop their relationships.)

_**High Society**_** Timeline:** This story is set post-Megan and pre-Nikki. The issue of Charlie's clearance is not yet resolved. And now, we whet your appetite...

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**Chapter 1: ****In Retrospect**

In retrospect, Don knew that he had gone too far. Sitting glumly in the break room, ignoring a cup of coffee, he could even pinpoint the moment he had crossed the line.

Contrary to how it might appear, he had pushed the envelope long before he broke his brother's nose. In the truth of hindsight, he knew he had broken something more important the instant the words flew out of his mouth.

_You're an arrogant ass, Charlie, and it's time you understood that this office does not revolve around you, any more than the world does. I'm sorry that I ever agreed to let you consult on your first case. I'm sorry you were ever born!_

He had seen the flash of hurt when those last words rolled off his tongue. Undeniable, even if Charlie hadn't lost his place in the tableau, forgetting to duck or even attempt to block Don's blow. His fist had crashed into Charlie's face, and Don had almost passed out himself at the _crack_ heard 'round the bullpen. Blood had spattered back onto his own face, and he had withdrawn bruised knuckles to stare at them in horror.

Charlie had grunted and dropped to his knees. Don had felt someone – later, it turned out to be David -- pulling him back, and made a half-hearted attempt to struggle. He watched Colby rush to Charlie's side, and wanted to cry out how sorry he was, push him away and take his place. Things had gone horribly wrong, miserably wrong, permanently wrong.

They should have had a script. They had talked about a general direction for the disagreement to take, but Don was afraid to over-rehearse and run the risk of giving themselves away. He had joked that he was sure he could come up with something to rile Charlie up – he had been doing it for years, after all. Plus, during those final moments in the elevator, just before curtain-call, Charlie hadn't seemed all that invested in preparation himself.

Don had no idea where that phrase had come from. _I wish you had never been born._ He hadn't said that to Charlie since he was seven years old. His mother had overheard him and he had spent the next two weeks grounded every afternoon after school. Every day he had to write a paper for her: One reason he was glad Charlie was his brother. He still remembered some of them. The first, _"I gots the only liddle bruther that kin do all my homewurk fer Mrs. Angel." _Mrs. Angel was his math teacher, and that paper had persuaded Margaret to have a little talk with her. Don's work had mysteriously doubled, and she started making him stay in at recess to complete the assignments.

A throat cleared behind him, and Don recognized Sinclair. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, to hide his face. He had to do this. He couldn't let the other agent suspect. Besides, he needed to stick around the office long enough for the rumor mill to rev up and reach warp speed; long enough for Wright to come down to the bullpen and publicly suspend his ass.

"Don…are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? Colby just called, and the plastic surgeon on duty is going to set Charlie's nose. I could give you a ride."

Don set down the coffee mug and snickered. "Did him a favor," he said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "He should have had a nose job years ago."

He felt David shift behind him. "Isn't your dad still out of town? Maybe Charlie shouldn't be alone, tonight."

Don clutched the mug and hoped Sinclair didn't see his knuckles turning white. They had thought it good timing, that their father was off on a visit to their Aunt Irene in Santa Barbara. They wouldn't have to worry about Alan finding out what was going on, or fretting over something that wasn't real. Things had suddenly taken on a shocking reality, though, and now Charlie was hurt. He would be in pain, and he would go home alone, and Don could not go to help him. Even if it killed him. "He's got friends," he grumbled, and he succeeded in making himself feel even worse. Amita and that…that professor guy, the one who had taken over the bulk of Larry's Hoggs boson research…they had squeezed in a quick trip to D.C. to meet with Larry. Even though the diminutive physicist had taken a huge step back when he decided to join Megan in the nation's capitol, he still had a hand in the project; when he left, the plan was for him to come back to L.A. occasionally, and for Amita and that other guy to go to D.C. every now-and-then. Surely Colby would at least ask Charlie if he should call Amita or something, and figure it out? Damn.

Don took another sip of coffee and was glad when it burned all the way down his throat.

He deserved it.

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End, Chapter 1


	2. In Retrospect Charlie

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 2: In Retrospect - Charlie**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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In retrospect, Charlie had to ask himself if getting his security clearance back was worth it. Several weeks ago, that wouldn't have been a question. Now, however, he had to ask himself – was it worth his life?

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_Several weeks earlier…_

After he'd lost his security clearance by sending a well-meant but ill-advised email containing Professor Sanjrani's genetic research regarding crop optimization techniques to Pakistan, there was no doubt in Charlie's mind that he wanted his clearance back, that he'd do anything to get it. Well, almost anything. Anything legal, anyway. He'd found flaunting the law hadn't exactly provided optimal results.

His lawyers assured him they were working on it, but the wheels of justice ground exceedingly slowly. They insinuated it would be good for him to call in a marker, to lean on any contacts he had in high places. He'd done that – he'd swallowed his pride and called Bob Tompkins, Assistant Director of the NSA, and several other contacts in other agencies, of the same rarified government level as Bob. Oh, they were sympathetic, at least most of them were. More than one of them, though, was pissed off. Pissed off that one of their valuable resources had been dumb enough to get himself into a situation where they were no longer allowed to use him, pissed off that the reason for Charlie's action had been, as one of them put it, "a goddamn misguided bleeding heart liberal impulse."

Considering the fact that most of them were, like Don and others who spent their lives fighting crime, a little on the hawkish side, Charlie could understand their reaction. He didn't agree with it – well, maybe the impulsive part; that was hard to argue. If that had been the only way to help those starving people, he would still have done it all over again. However, the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that there might have been other ways to get the job done, without an impassioned push of a button on his part.

It made his self-imposed exile even more galling. The thought that he could have prevented this if he'd just thought it through a little more carefully scratched his psyche constantly, like an especially prickly burr. It was worse around Don. His brother was still immersed in a world where Charlie no longer belonged, and although Don had cut way down on the office talk, snippets of information on the cases he was working still made it into the conversation when he stopped by. It drove Charlie absolutely crazy to hear of them, and sometimes he suspected Don of dropping the tidbits on purpose, just to torture him. Because Don wasn't happy either.

He could tell by the way Don looked at him that his brother felt let down, disappointed, and that was the most distressing part of all of it. Charlie had spent a lifetime trying to impress his brother, trying to get closer to him, and now, with one imprudent, although altruistic, action, he'd destroyed any tiny progress he'd made to date.

As time went on, however, Charlie, although desperate to get his clearance back, had resigned himself to getting back to the life he knew before Don had come back to L.A., before he'd started working cases. He'd focus on his research, he decided, his writing. He was capable of making a quantum breakthrough of some kind in the mathematical world, over and above the work he'd done already. He had it in him, still, and now was the time to do it. He tried hard to convince himself this was kismet; that there was a reason for this seeming setback that would someday pay off in a huge mathematical advancement. It helped that Don's needling little hints and generally snarky attitude were starting to get annoying. It helped that they argued about everything and anything these days. It almost made Charlie believe that it was for the best. Almost.

The truth was; his feelings were a bit hurt by Don's reaction. It was almost identical to the feeling he got when he'd looked for help from his government contacts. His action had caused them some _inconvenience_ – and apparently, Don felt the same way. It wasn't that he missed working with him, oh no, thought Charlie bitterly. Don had gotten used to the help, and was irked that he had to do without it. Why else would he keep on with the snide remarks, instead of being supportive? The more hints and reproachful looks he got, the more Charlie was determined to make it look as though they didn't bother him. He was his own man, goddamn it, security clearance or not. He no longer worked for his brother; no one could tell him what to do. It was liberating, that's what it was. Goddamn liberating.

That's what he told himself that hot summer day, as he pounded furiously with chalk on a hapless chalkboard in the garage. Don had apparently given up on trying to get his goat for a while, and had only been to the Craftsman once in the past week – and that was on an evening when Charlie wasn't there. Charlie wasn't sure which was worse – the arguing, or not having him there at all.

A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead, and he wiped it away, angrily, and checked the logic of his last sequence. Another drip and he'd had enough. He stripped off his shirt. He was down to shorts and sandals, and still the fan's breeze was inadequate. Oddly enough, it supported his work – global warming was a hot topic, and conclusive analyses by credentialed mathematicians were in demand. He was working on one right now. Another week or two and he would have it ready for publication, if he wanted to present it as a paper. He had plenty of material, however, enough for a book. His publisher would be thrilled if he could generate another book. His first one -- well, at least his first non-textbook publication -- was still on the bestseller list, and as it gained in popularity, he'd had countless demands for book signings, talks, and appearances. He'd turned a lot of them down, while he was working cases for Don. Now he had time for them.

He had time for Amita, too. She was the one person who was happy with the turn of events. She'd never been thrilled about his consulting work for Don; she felt it took Charlie away from his true calling. People who had the capability to advance the level of understanding of mathematics, who could come up with true breakthroughs, were rare, she stated. Charlie was one of those few, according to her. He'd been a star in his early career, with his development of the Eppes Convergence. He could do it again, Amita declared, and she was behind him all the way. If Charlie had been thinking straight, if his sorely damaged ego hadn't needed that stroking, he might have wondered about it – wondered why she pushed that so much, wondered if she wasn't more interested in dating a math star than she was in dating Charlie Eppes. In his current frame of mind, however, her cheerleading made him feel better, and he felt as though they had finally reached that nebulous point – it was time for another level of commitment. He had decided to propose.

It was set for later that week, and so far, no one knew about it but him and the jeweler. He'd made reservations at the outrageously pricey Bastide, _the_ most expensive restaurant in LA.

He'd gotten the engagement ring, diving into the research for the perfect diamond with his usual fervor for knowledge, and emerged with a four-carat yellow beauty, which he'd had set in platinum. It had set him back a pretty penny, but it didn't matter. Just because he didn't have clearances to consult for law enforcement agencies didn't mean he couldn't consult for private businesses – and they paid more, much more. He had more time for that now, too.

Yes, his life was just starting to take off – he'd been an idiot to be sidetracked for so long by the FBI. He would be wealthy and famous, with a beautiful, intelligent bride, and work he loved – he would have a life about which others could only dream. Why in the hell, then, was he so – so – what? Upset, pissed off, depressed, his subconscious answered. Among other disagreeable emotions. He jabbed at the chalkboard again, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and stood back to examine his work. He'd had enough for the moment – it was time for a shower.

He was still examining the equations, his hand outstretched, moving it over the equations as he read, as if to pronounce a benediction. He was completely focused; so when Don's voice came from behind him, he jumped.

"Working hard, I see."

Charlie turned, a little flustered, and Don's sardonic grin did nothing to improve his temper. Don was holding a beer, leaning against the doorway, and as always, looked cool, in more ways than one. As always, Charlie felt woefully inadequate around him. "Don't you ever knock?" he shot back grouchily.

Don shrugged. "The door was open." He eyed his brother. Charlie was dripping with sweat, his curls disheveled, with a flushed face and snapping eyes that had portended a whopper of a fight on more than one occasion. He looked thinner, Don noted, too, and had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping well. He pushed those last observations out of his mind. He didn't want to be sympathetic. The fact was; he was as pissed off as Charlie looked. He was spoiling for a fight, had been all week. It was why, in fact, he'd stayed away, until his irritability had eroded his better judgment and he'd decided to stop over. A little needling was in order – was just the thing to improve his mood. His therapist, Dr. Bradford, would call it passive-aggressive, and a regression into Don's high school behavior. Don called it satisfying.

Well, not really, his subconscious admitted, because he always came away from his recent encounters with Charlie more irritated than when he arrived, even though he nearly always managed to achieve what he came for – to piss Charlie off. Don's subconscious would tell him that he was doing this because he was angry and hurt by what could only be described as abandonment. His subconscious would tell him he was threatened that his younger brother would finally take off into stratospheric success, and leave him behind. His subconscious would say that he missed his brother more than he could say – but then his conscious mind would step in, the one that said he'd always been his own man, that said he didn't need some geeky little twerp dogging his steps, that said he was too worldly, too cool for the stuffy academic bullshit that his brother espoused. Charlie, with his head in the clouds – with no clue of what reality was. It took a tough person to deal with reality; Don couldn't afford to stick _his_ head in the clouds, couldn't afford the luxury of pushing a button and blowing away _his_ security clearance. That option was for spoiled, idealistic, holier-than-thou little brothers…little brothers who would stand on principle for some unknown peasants a world away, and in the process throw away a tenuous but growing relationship with their older brothers…

He took a swig of his beer – Charlie's beer, to be exact. "Looks interesting." He smirked.

Charlie grabbed his shirt from the floor, and switched off the fan impatiently. Don's words were friendly, but the tone and the smirk were intentionally condescending. He felt his irritability increase. "It is, although you wouldn't know."

He moved toward the doorway, but Don didn't budge, made him wait, while he took another drink of beer. "If you say so."

"Do you mind?" Charlie asked crossly. "I'd like to go up and take a shower."

Don shrugged and moved aside, sauntering lazily off toward the koi pond.

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It went perfectly, better than Charlie had hoped. Friday night at 7:30 p.m., he picked Amita up in a limo, much to her surprise and delight. She looked tremendous, in a sexy little white dress, so good that he almost wished he'd skipped the limo and arrived at her place himself with the pre-dinner champagne, so they could start the evening off in her bedroom. He chided himself for the thought – this was her night, and she deserved it to be as romantic as she dreamed it would be. He gallantly poured the champagne into flutes, in the back seat, as steadily as if he'd done it hundreds of times. How he managed that, he wasn't sure; his heart was pounding with nervousness and excitement.

"Charlie." Amita was flushed with pleasure. "My goodness, you're really pulling out all the stops, aren't you? What's the occasion?"

He pretended to look disappointed. "You don't remember?"

Her eyes widened a little; she looked slightly disconcerted, a little anxious. "No."

He smiled. "It's the anniversary of the day we met. I'll never forget it. You walked into my classroom…"

She smiled back. "And you were wearing headphones, and rocking away at the chalkboard, with some of the most elegant math I'd ever seen flowing from your fingertips."

His grin widened. "That's not exactly what I remember, but it might be true. Any other memories I had of that moment were blown out of my head when I took the headphones off, and turned to look at the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."

He cocked his head and blushed as he delivered the statement, and the slightly geeky mannerism made her smile. "Charlie, I can't believe you remembered that – what day it was – it was a warm fall that year, too, wasn't it?" She winked at him. "Maybe it's been you all along, making me hot." Charlie's blush increased to crimson and Amita sighed happily. "This is so sweet."

"I have a little more time to think of these things now," he said, and he raised his glass. "To us."

"To us," she repeated, dimpling, and the look she sent him over the glass as she sipped had his heart pounding even harder.

Bastide was tremendous. It was a tiny, exclusive spot, a house in a garden on Melrose Place, with a limited number of tables. Charlie had turned down the coveted chef's table with its view of the kitchen for a more romantic spot in the garden, next to the fountain. The prix fixe menu was deceptively simple; there was no description for any of the seven courses they were served other than the most basic – titles like "Fish," and "Thai." The composition of the dishes changed daily at the whim of the chef. The chef even used the word "amuse" instead of "appetizer"; Charlie wasn't sure if it was a reference to the fact that the dish amused the guest's palates, or if amused the chef to make it. Perhaps both. Every selection was an artfully prepared surprise.

They held hands across the cozy table and talked. Unlike their first dates, when they had fumbled for any topic other than math, the conversation flowed easily. A lot of it did concern math – they'd gotten to the point where neither of them felt they had to apologize for discussing their first love. At Bastide, one paid a premium, but it bought a table for the entire night – leisurely courses, accompanied by champagnes and good wines. Charlie was certain that he was knocking her socks off, or her silk hose in this case, and as she rose to find the ladies' room and reapply her lipstick, he sat back in his chair, and let out a huge shaky breath with a smile. It was a tremendous night, and he was having a great time himself, in spite of the nervousness. She couldn't say no, he told himself, wouldn't possibly say no.

He'd been so captivated by her, he'd paid no attention to the other diners at the discreetly scattered tables in the garden, and therefore was surprised as one of them got up and approached him. The man was around six feet tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders under an expensive Italian suit, and shoes that Charlie was certain cost more than his own suit, which hadn't been cheap. In spite of the man's build, he moved with feline grace, and extended a hand to Charlie with an apologetic smile, which was offset by the calculating gleam in his eye. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have to ask; you're Dr. Eppes, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Charlie, as he shook the man's hand. The grip was powerful; even though Charlie got the impression that the man was toning it down. He held Charlie's hand for just a fraction of a second longer than seemed comfortable. "I'm sorry, you are -?"

"Forgive me," said the man. "J. T. Morrison. I'm a big fan of your book." He released Charlie's hand.

Charlie's jaw dropped. J. T. Morrison – the famous producer – one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood –_ that_ J. T. Morrison? "I'm pleased to meet you," he stammered. He was blushing, he realized, with mortification, and the other man was smiling, seemingly amused at his discomfiture.

"Likewise," replied Morrison. "I won't keep you – I just wanted to say hello, and how much I enjoyed your book. Perhaps I'll see you on the social circuit."

"Perhaps," returned Charlie, managing to salvage a smile; and the man departed, as Amita returned to their table.

"Who was that?" she asked curiously.

Charlie grinned and shook his head. "J. T. Morrison – the producer."

She stared. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. He came over to tell me he liked my book."

An amazed smile crept over her face. "Wow."

He smiled back. "Yeah." '_Chalk up another point,_' he thought to himself. '_She couldn't possibly say no…_'

She didn't. After dinner, he had the limo take them up the coast to another exclusive little spot known for its view, and terraces set into the hillside. In the moonlight on one of the terraces, amid honey-scented flowers, he proposed, and after she'd gotten over the shock of the ring, she excitedly accepted. As he kissed her under the stars, he felt that his heart was ready to explode with happiness.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Invitations

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 3: Invitations**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Alan observed his younger son with raised eyebrows the next morning. Charlie drifted downstairs with a dreamy smile, and went for his coffee with a cheerful, "Hi, Pop." Smiles on either of his sons' faces were rare these days, and he wondered what was generating it. Not that he minded. It was about time they started to get over the loss of Charlie's security clearance, and moved on with life. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Soooo," Charlie said, turning and leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes glinted mischievously over the rim of his mug. "I did it."

Alan eyed him curiously. "Did what?"

"I popped the question, last night. I proposed. She said yes."

Alan gaped; then whooped in delight, springing to his feet. "Are you kidding, Charlie?" He crossed the space between them with one big stride, and Charlie just managed to set his cup down before he was enveloped in a crushing hug. The old man was stronger than he looked.

"Congratulations, son! That's wonderful!" Alan laughed as he released him and clapped him on the shoulder. "I can't believe it – one of my sons finally did it."

Charlie grinned back at him. "We haven't set a date yet. Amita said we'd worry about that later. To be honest, I think she wants the idea to sink in with her parents for a while."

Alan stepped back and retrieved his coffee. "Well, I can't imagine they'd have a hard time with it. I think you won them over when there were here for their visit."

Charlie nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, we called them last night, both of us. They seemed okay with it. I think they want a traditional wedding in Delhi, though, and Amita wants to try to talk them out of that. It might take a while."

Alan smiled. "Well, you've waited this long. A little longer can't hurt."

Charlie sobered a bit. "We haven't told anyone but the parents – maybe you could keep it quiet for a few days, until we get around to everyone."

Alan grumbled with mock displeasure. "You make me wait all this time for you to act, and then you tell me I can't tell anyone?" His face split in a smile. "Of course, just let me know when it's okay to talk." He sighed happily. "Son, you just made my day."

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Tuesday afternoon, Don sat at his desk, and sighed. It was almost one, and he was contemplating grabbing lunch. The office seemed empty these days – Megan's departure had left a hole, to be sure, which Wright was working on filling, if not with another profiler, at least another agent. What was even more depressing was the absence of another person – an energetic, sometimes annoying, always stimulating being, who happened to sport a head of dark curls. Even though there were many hours, days even, when Charlie hadn't come into the office when he was consulting, there was always the expectation that he'd be back, that he'd come loping in, carting his bag along with insights on a case, or maybe just an invitation to lunch. And always, he'd brought with him a sense that the world revolved around Don – an unequivocal loyalty, an undying devotion, an undiluted admiration. Charlie had been his biggest fan in the game of life, or so Don had thought.

He was usually pretty good at reading people, and although he hadn't consciously recognized his brother's adulation until it was gone, he'd had the sense, deep down inside, that it was there. Apparently, he'd been wrong. Charlie had not only thrown away their relationship with the touch of a button, he seemed intent on moving on, ignoring Don's teasing bits of information on cases, and offering precious little about what he was working on himself. Hell, he couldn't even get a satisfactory argument out of the guy anymore.

His thoughts were broken by the ring of the phone, and he picked up the receiver with a sigh. "Eppes." He brightened a little, and straightened in his chair. "Oh, hey, Megan."

On the other end, Megan grinned at Larry, as she said, "I just thought I'd call and say hi – you told me to give you a buzz when I got situated. I've got Larry on the speaker phone – he says hi, too."

"Oh, yeah?" Don grinned, settling back in his chair. "Tell him I said hi back. How's his – what's he doing again?"

"The project at the Markam Institute – the think tank, remember? He loves it." Her voice took on a note of pride. "Georgetown University has also persuaded him to teach a class this semester; they practically _begged!_"

"Aww, that's great. And how about you?"

Megan smiled. "Good, Don. I miss you guys of course, but I'm enjoying myself."

Don's smile softened. "That's good, Megan, I'm glad."

"But anyway," she said, with another smile at Larry, "we didn't only call to say hi – we wanted to say congrats on your new sister-in-law. We are both thrilled." She waited for a response, unaware that Don was holding the phone to his ear with a blank look on his face, gaping.

"Don?"

Don managed, at least partially, to find his voice. "I – uh – I guess that's news to me. Thanks, I think."

Megan's eyes widened, and she looked at Larry in horror, who pursed his lips in distress, and plastered one hand against his cheek, with a murmured, "Oh, my."

Megan stammered into the phone. "Oh, my God, Don – Charlie asked us not tell anyone yet until he got around to everybody, but we didn't think – I mean, he said he asked her Friday, and we figured you and Alan - ,"

Don had recovered somewhat, and a tight smile played across his lips. "No, don't apologize, Megan – I haven't been over there since last Wednesday. I'm sure he just wanted to tell me in person."

"Oh, my God, and I've ruined it!" exclaimed Megan. "I am so sorry -,"

"That's okay," insisted Don. Actually, it wasn't; it was far from okay, but he just wanted to end the uncomfortable call. "Look, I've got to go – I'll talk to you later. Thanks for the call, and good luck to you both. Bye." He set the phone back in its cradle and stared at it for a moment, and then abruptly got to his feet. His dad hadn't called him either – what in the hell was going on here? One thing was certain; he was going to find out.

Twenty-five minutes later, he was pulling into the driveway of the Craftsman. His dad had been working from home quite a bit lately, and Don had expected to find him there; he was planning on pumping the old man for information, and maybe even giving him a hard time for not saying anything. Unfortunately, Charlie's car was there too; he must have come home for lunch. Or maybe not unfortunately – he might as well face the source of the issue.

He knocked – something he hadn't done until a few weeks ago – before entering. Charlie was standing at the dining room table looking through mail, and looked up, as Alan came out of the kitchen. "Donny," his father exclaimed happily, "what a nice surprise. I was just throwing together some sandwiches." He ducked back into the kitchen.

Don tried to read the expression on Charlie's face. He looked a bit taken aback, but not upset, not guilty, not any of the things he should be feeling. "Hey," he said, in a lighter tone than Don had heard from him in days. "I was wondering when you'd stop by. I figured you would show up for dinner one of these nights – I had something to tell you."

"So I heard," replied Don coolly. "And apparently, so has everyone else. There's a guy named Alexander Graham Bell, Charlie – he invented something called the telephone? You may have heard of it."

Charlie's face fell. "You heard already?"

Don's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Considering that you've told people in several spots on the globe, is it that surprising?"

Charlie's brows knit. "We hadn't told that many people. We called Amita's parents, I told Dad, and this morning, I happened to be talking to Larry, and I mentioned it to him, just because I wasn't sure when I'd get a chance to talk to him again." He scowled. "If you'd show up once in a while, maybe you would have heard by now. This was the first Sunday in weeks you haven't shown up for dinner. I wanted to tell you in person." He tossed an envelope down on the table angrily, and ran a hand through his hair in disgust. "So much for that."

Don suddenly felt a little foolish when it was put that way, but he wasn't going to let it go without trying to save face. "You could have stopped by the office."

Charlie's eyes flashed darkly. "Yeah," he muttered, "I'm welcome there."

"Charlie, there's nothing that says you can't stop by to see me," protested Don. "But look, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to burst your bubble. It just – well, when Megan called this morning, it just sounded like everyone knew but me. It was a little embarrassing."

Charlie's scowl faded. "He told Megan?" He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Never mind, strike that – stupid question." He looked at Don ruefully. "I'm sorry – I just didn't think."

Don gazed back. There was a hint of the old Charlie there in that apologetic expression. Could this be the beginnings of a truce? He still felt a little disappointed – he would have thought that Charlie would want to share excitement like that with him as soon as it happened – but then, Charlie was a little clueless sometimes. It probably hadn't been intentional. "Hey, well, look." He crossed the floor, his hand extended. "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."

He'd intended a brief shake, and to pull his brother into a hug, but the outstretched hand apparently completely threw Charlie, who seemed to be expecting something more. He stared at the hand, and then took it stiffly, formally, jettisoning any chance for an impromptu hug. The handshake felt as awkward as it looked, and Don could see a flash of disappointment in Charlie's face before he turned back to the table – more than likely the same look he had on his own face.

"Well, I might as well go through this over lunch," Charlie said as he gathered the mail and trudged toward the kitchen. He held the door open for Don with a tight smile. "After you."

Lunch was just a little more comfortable, and that was only because Alan babbled on happily about the engagement, filling Don in on how Charlie had proposed. Don had to admit, it sounded as though his socially challenged brother had done a heck of a job. Charlie concentrated on his mail, frowning as he came to a square, expensive-looking envelope, and grunting in surprise as he looked at the single, heavy card inside. "Look at this -," he looked up at Alan. "Remember me telling you about meeting J. T. Morrison?"

Alan shot a conspiratorial grin toward Don. "Considering the fact that I was telling your brother about that just now, yes."

Charlie shot them a slightly embarrassed look. "Oh. Well anyway, he sent me an invitation to one of his parties."

Alan stared at him. "Are you serious? Charlie, those parties are legendary. Politicians, actors, writers, _anyone_ famous – there are stories about them all the time. Half of the famous people in Hollywood would die to be invited."

"Some of them have," remarked Don darkly. "There was drug overdose at a party he held last month – a young actress died."

"Well, it's a cutting edge crowd," conceded Alan. "I imagine he can't control what his guests bring with them, or what they take before they get there."

Charlie looked at Alan. "How do you know all this?"

Alan shrugged. "I watch the entertainment channel, read the stories on the internet. You know, those little gossip panel pop-ups."

Don shook his head. "You don't know the half of it. That's a wild crowd, Charlie – that's not for you."

Charlie had come to that conclusion himself; he really hadn't intended on going, but Don's words made his temper flare. His brother still apparently thought he could waltz into Charlie's own house and order him around. He smiled, with thinly veiled anger. "I think I'll make that decision on my own, thanks." He stood, and gathered up the mail with deliberate movements.

Don scowled. "Come on, Charlie, don't be an idiot. You don't need to get involved with that bunch."

Charlie snapped. "What bunch, Don? Famous people? Did it ever occur to you that this might be a good business move, maybe help sell more copies of my book? I don't need your advice when it comes to my publications, thanks." He almost added sarcastically, _'Oh, and thanks for your heartfelt congratulations, too,' _but managed to bite his tongue. He turned and pushed through the kitchen door. "Thanks for lunch, Dad. I've got to get back to campus." The door swung shut behind him.

"He's an idiot," Don repeated, in a growl.

Alan was looking at him sternly. "Don, it's a party – people go to the man's house all the time. The governor's been there, for God's sakes. What's with you, lately?"

Don stood impatiently. "Look, Dad, I'm sure some of his parties are fine. There are just rumors that some of that same crowd is involved in some nasty stuff. Charlie's not a jetsetter. Why in the hell would he even bother with that?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I think you're jealous."

"I am not," retorted Don. "I've got better things to do. Thanks for lunch." He turned and strode out the back door, purposely avoiding the dining room, and Charlie. The fact was, he _was_ jealous, a little. Not of the invitation – he was jealous of his brother's time. Charlie was being pulled slowly, inexorably away by a new life, and soon, a new wife. Hell, he hadn't even taken the time to pick up the phone and call him about his engagement.

His attempt to avoid Charlie, his tactical maneuvering failed; he got out to the driveway, only to see Charlie heading for his Prius. They glared at each other, climbed into their vehicles, and drove away.

………………………………………………………………

End Chapter 3


	4. Party Animal

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 4: Party Animal**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**Rating Changes to "M" with this chapter**

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Amita was smiling as she answered the door. "I thought I recognized the sound of your car," she started, but her speech and her smile faltered a little when she saw her fiancé's face. "Is something wrong?" She stepped back, holding the door open so that Charlie could enter the apartment.

He paused briefly in the doorway to kiss her – always a welcome intrusion, even when he was obviously distracted. "Nah," he grunted when they finally separated. He grabbed one of her hands with one of his own and pulled her toward the sofa in the small living room. "Don just drives me crazy, sometimes. Come and see what I got in the mail, today!"

Amita went with him willingly, kicking the door shut behind her. "It must be pretty impressive for you to bring it all the way over here," she laughed. "You could have just called, or waited until I go back to campus for my evening class." The two settled on one end of the couch and a twinkle entered her eye as she looked at him. "Charlie! Did you sell another book?"

Charlie rolled his eyes and grinned. "You're worse than Ruby."

Amita arched an eyebrow. "The publicist from hell? Thank-you very much!"

Charlie held up the thick, cream-colored envelope. "This should tame even her. Remember I told you about J.T. Morrison talking to me at Bastide? He said he liked my book?"

Amita's eyes widened and she reached to pluck the square envelope from his hand. "You're kidding. This isn't…." She pulled the heavy card-stock insert partially out to read it quickly; then turned bright eyes back to Charlie. "I can't believe this! I just read an article about his parties in _People_ last week!"

Charlie looked horrified. "You read _People?_ I may need to reconsider the whole proposal thing."

Amita smacked him on the arm with the invitation, making a face. "I was in the dentist's office," she explained.

"R–r-i-i-i-g-h-t," Charlie teased, smiling at her rosy blush. "There's a number to RSVP; I'm going to call and ask if I can bring you with me."

Amita squealed, looking again at the card. Her face fell, and she looked back at Charlie. "It's on Friday, sweetie. You know Dr. Rastenbaum and I work on Higgs boson every Friday evening."

Charlie retrieved the invitation and looked down at the date himself. "You can skip one night," he suggested when he looked back at Amita.

She tried to smile bravely as she shook her head. "I already did once, you remember – the night you proposed. I just can't skip again. We're both covering extra classes since Larry hasn't been replaced yet, and it's almost impossible for us to synchronize schedules. We're lucky to spend 10 hours a week working on this together – Larry and I were logging almost 25." Charlie started to protest but she hushed him with a soft finger to his lips. "We have a lot of ground to cover before we go to D.C. at the end of next month to meet with Larry."

Charlie looked truly heartbroken. "Damn. This was only going to be fun if you were there."

Amita laughed and leaned in to kiss him quickly, pulling back before things developed that made them both late for class. "You're sweet to say so, Charlie. You should go. Since I've been working every Friday night, you're at loose ends anyway. You can tell me all about it."

Charlie waggled his eyebrows. "I know – you can call me during the party. When I take the call, I'll use my cell phone camera to take a few shots. I can sell them to the _National Enquirer_."

She shook her forefinger at him. "You jest, but that story I read said that no cells are allowed into the parties for that very reason. I think you have to leave it in your car, or something."

Charlie huffed out a laugh. "Good grief," he groused good-naturedly. "What am I getting myself into?"

…………………………………

Robin could feel the tension in Don's shoulders.

They were in their favorite post-coital position, reclining on her king-sized bed, both facing the television. At her back was the headboard; against her breasts was the back of Don's head. Perspiration dried in the conditioned air; it would have been uncomfortably warm, if either of them were wearing a stitch of clothing.

The scene was becoming almost achingly familiar, but tonight there was a difference. Usually, regardless how bad a day either one of them had put in on the job, the sex relaxed them. Oh, Don was not as tightly wound as he had been when he had first showed up at the door, that much was true. Unfortunately, she could feel the opposite truth as well – he was far from relaxed.

In one hand she held the remote, and she pointed it at the television and started surfing while with the other hand, which rested lazily on Don's chest, she traced abstract circles around his nipple. She considered the best way to get him to talk. When it came to the 'caring and sharing' part of life, Don Eppes could be – hell, face it; he usually was – a lot of work. She was experienced at cross-examination, though. She had ways of making people talk.

She settled on a course of action. "Remind me to thank Charlie," she said lightly, switching to another station.

Don grunted. "Hey; go back – that one looked good. Why are you thanking Charlie?"

She found the channel she wanted and lowered the remote to the bed beside them. "Ah, there it is. _Deadliest Catch_. I'm worried about Captain Phil. And every time you're pissed at Charlie, you're particularly rambunctious in the sack. I lose five pounds every go-round. Since the whole clearance debacle, I've become positively svelte."

He grunted again, shifting a little against her. "Not a damn cop show, honey – I get enough of that in real life!" He pushed meaningfully back into her chest. "You don't have to worry about the way you look, anyway. You're freakin' gorgeous."

She laughed, finding it perhaps the most artfully phrased compliment she had ever received. "It's not a cop show," she protested. "These are crab fisherman, on the Bering Sea…" – she pinched his nipple playfully – "…off Alaska. This is where we're going on our honeymoon."

To her dismay, Don stiffened. Well, she was dismayed about which part of Don stiffened. The two of them often teased each other about marriage, but tonight it seemed to plunge him further into his funk. "I'm not pissed about the clearance," he admitted, muttering into her arm. He shifted, again. "I mean, no more than usual. He's found a new way to insult me!"

Robin stopped playing with his nipple and slapped lightly at his pectoral before bringing her other hand up to fully encircle him in her embrace. "Don," she chided. "Have you spoken with Dr. Bradford about this…this unhealthy belief you insist on carting around? Charlie didn't do what he did to insult you."

He sulked. "How do you know? You haven't even heard what he did, yet!"

She rested her chin lightly on the top of his head. "I'm talking about losing his clearance."

Don suddenly pushed up against her arms and broke free of them, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and perching on the edge. He ran one hand through his hair. "Maybe that wasn't his original motivation," he insisted, "but I'm sure he's loving the fringe benefits."

Robin pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, instead. "What are you talking about?"

Don looked at her with such a sullen expression she felt a little fear as she glimpsed the future. If they _did_ get married and have a family, their little boy would look like this all the time. "All I know is that even with things the way they are between us – if _I_ was getting married, I'd ask him to be my Best Man." He snorted derisively, looking away. "Goes without saying I'd tell him first, of course."

The light dawned. "Ah," Robin breathed, reaching out to start massaging his tense shoulders. "So that's it. Has he asked someone else?"

Don shrugged under her touch. "Beats me."

She considered her words before she spoke. "When we had dinner with your father last night, he indicated that Charlie and Amita haven't set a date yet, or even decided what sort of ceremony they're having. Do traditional Indian weddings even have a 'Best Man'?" He refused to answer her, so she plunged ahead. "He's probably just waiting until he has something more specific to go on." The logical tone she saved for closing arguments took over her voice. "I mean, if you want to talk about _insults_…wouldn't it be a greater insult to ask you to be his Best Man and then tell you he didn't need one after all?"

Don growled low in the back of his throat and then whipped around to silence her with a kiss. "So," he whispered, dropping one hand to her bare hip. "You could stand to lose a few more pounds."

Robin squealed when his mouth dropped lower, latching onto a breast. She buried both hands in his short, dark hair. "Oh, my," she breathed, her eyes almost rolling back into her head. "What am I getting myself into?"

………………………………………

The drive up Mulholland had been staggering. The views – from L.A.'s urban skyline to pastoral scenes – were so extraordinary that Charlie had a difficult time keeping the Prius on the road. True, he was a child of L.A., but he hadn't traveled in these circles. Frankly, before Ruby had thrown him into the deep end of the pool, he had never even considered how the other half lived. Charlie had always enjoyed a comfortable life – but these were the very rich, the very famous. Comfort in a place like Pasadena was no-doubt a soup kitchen to them. At one point, Charlie thought he recognized Diana Ross walking a poodle down the pristine sidewalk, and it surprised him a little how starstruck he was.

Eventually he eased the Prius to a gate at the foot of a long and winding driveway. He announced himself to the mounted speaker system – waving into a video camera he spied near the top of the arch – and the gates soon swept open. He urged his car forward, and traveled another eighth of a mile before the spacious, multi-level home came into view. It was nothing short of opulent, and already well lit for the evening, even though it was only 7:30 in the late spring, and the sun would not set for another hour. He pulled to a stop in front, behind a limousine disgorging a well-dressed couple whose shoes probably cost more than his vehicle. There was a sharp rap on his window and he started, turning his head to see a smiling valet.

J.T. Morrison had a valet service at his parties. Unbelievable.

Unaccountably nervous, Charlie smiled back and shifted the car into 'Park'. When the valet opened his door for him so that Charlie could step outside, he held out his hand. At first, Charlie thought he wanted a tip, and he was confused. Didn't one usually tip the valet at the end of the evening? And if one could afford valets at one's private party, did they still work for tips? Then he heard the handsome young man – a model out of work, probably – speak. "Your phone, sir?" He remembered then what Amita had said about the cell phones.

"Right," he stammered, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the offensive device. He handed his car and his phone over to a complete stranger, cleared his throat, and started up the Italian tile toward the front door.

J.T. Morrison himself met Charlie there. The young professor was soon well and truly swept off his feet, introduced to more pretty people than he would ever remember. Morrison was sticking close, which was oddly gratifying. He provided a tour of the mansion; leading Charlie up and down so many different winding staircases, he was hopelessly lost within five minutes. After the media room, in the walk-in wine cellar, Morrison insisted upon opening a bottle of 2000 Bordeaux, an offering from Chateau Lafite Rothschild, and sharing a private glass or two with Charlie. Not exactly a stranger to good wine himself, Dr, Eppes was still nearly brought to his knees. The intense flavors of layer upon layer of fruit that cascaded richly over his palate with extraordinary silky precision and seamlessness nearly took his breath away.

Morrison's eyes sparkled over the rim of his glass. "Wonderfully light on its feet, don't you think?" he asked, giving the crystal goblet a swirl.

Charlie choked out a response. "Yet it shows remarkable restraint," he croaked.

Morrison chuckled, and insisted on filling their glasses again. "You'll join the others in the pool and work this off," he said when Charlie tried to stop him. "Not to worry. Besides, if it is unwise for you to get behind the wheel after any of my parties, you are welcome to one of my eight guest suites."

Parties? As in plural? Was Morrison saying that Charlie was on the A-list, now?

He grinned, and enjoyed the wine. Later, after Morrison had pointed out the pool house and assured him that he would find a pair of trunks that fit inside, Charlie weaved around the clumps of guests who dotted the perimeter of the lagoon pool. At one point, a completely naked woman floated by on a pool chaise, her eyes closed. Charlie's own eyes widened, but with an effort he stopped himself from turning around to look at the buxom beauty again.

The sun had almost set by the time he came shyly out of the pool house in a brand new pair of trunks and nothing else. The estate was well illuminated, though, and from his vantage point nearby, Morrison could see Charlie's lean body clearly. Dark hair covered his chest, arms and legs. Sinewy muscles rippled just beneath the surface. J.T. watched Charlie step into the water, saw him smile at the couple wading toward him, and licked his lips.

He had to take his time with this one – but he wasn't sure he could. _"Ohhh,"_ he nearly groaned, watching Charlie. _"What am I getting myself into?"_

……………………………………

Amita had told Dane Rastenbaum about Charlie's invitation, and the two had laughed and made light-hearted jokes about their new jet-setter for the first half of the evening before exhaustion began to creep up on them both, and they began speaking only when necessary.

Now, Rastenbaum was standing at the board in Amita's office, using a lemon-scented dry erase marker to phrase a working hypothesis. Amita, seated at her desk, looked up from her laptop long enough to note again how well his dark polo fit. She could see the six-pack abs outlined beneath the material, and she wondered abstractly what he did to maintain his physique. He glanced at her and smiled, his teeth an almost-dazzling white, and she started when she realized she had been staring. She made a hurried comment about the weather and refocused on her laptop, chagrined. She was tired, she told herself, and easily distracted.

She had almost convinced herself that this was true when Dr. Rastenbaum dropped the dry erase marker. It clattered on the floor, and she looked up from the computer at the sound. This time she caught an eyeful of Dane's firm, fine behind, as it arched into an artful curve when he bent to pick up the marker. He smiled at her again when he straightened, and she blushed furiously as she looked down at the desk and pretended to search for something on the cluttered wood. _"Oh my God,"_ she despaired silently. _"What am I getting myself into?"_

……………………………………………….

End, Chapter 4


	5. Breakfast of Champions

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 5: Breakfast of Champions**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Martin Van Clefe sipped his health drink – hell, there was a stalk of celery in the Bloody Mary, wasn't there? – and regarded his old friend over the rim of the glass. J.T. looked relaxed; but then, he usually did. He had both more money and more power than God. In fact, in Hollywood, he _was_ God – and it was wise for a working stiff attorney specializing in entertainment law to keep that sort of thing in mind. Van Clefe knew which side his bread was buttered on, and he was staying on Morrison's good side as long as he possibly could. He set his drink down on the patio table and smiled ingratiatingly at the young kitchen's helper placing a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns in front of him. He winked, delighting in her blush. Damn, for such a young gal she was hot in bed. He enjoyed breaking her in so much that he had even talked J.T. into letting her stick around a little while.

The fiery red was creeping into her hairline by the time she managed to present J.T. with his poached eggs. Murmuring something about fetching some hot coffee, she headed back for the house without looking at Martin again. It was cute, how she thought J.T. didn't know what was going on. Amusing; especially considering the fact that J.T. had arranged it all to begin with.

Morrison pierced an egg with his fork and read Van Clefe's mind. "Martin, old friend, I do believe you're embarrassing the sweet young thing."

Martin snorted, nearly exhaling bits of hash brown all over the place. He swallowed. "Look who's talking," he teased. "Don't think I didn't see the way you were drooling over Eppes last night. If you weren't standing right next to him in some secluded corner, you were hiding behind a potted plant staring at him."

J.T. laughed easily. "Oh, dear. I had hoped I wasn't being obvious."

His friend jabbed the air with his fork to emphasize appropriate parts of his response. "Come on, J.T.! You asked us all to be on our best behavior and keep things under wraps last night. You had to know we'd be curious about your new friend."

Morrison shrugged. "Discretion is the better part of valor," he noted. "I wanted him to get comfortable before he's…exposed, so to speak." He grinned disarmingly before inserting almost an entire poached egg into his mouth.

It was Van Clefe's turn to laugh. "Oh, J.T. You're such a naughty boy!" The two men ingested more of their breakfast before Martin took another hit of his Bloody Mary.

The girl from the kitchen was back with the coffee by the time he was finished and he smacked his lips a little as he returned the glass to its place. She started, blushed again and spilled a little of the dark liquid around his china cup. She plucked the tea towel from her arm and wiped at the puddle almost frantically. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, afraid to look at her employer. "Mr. Morrison, I'm so sorry…"

Van Clefe patted her on the rear. "No harm done, Angel," he said, and J.T. smirked at him before waving the girl away.

"Leave us," he ordered, and she tripped in her haste to exit.

Martin feigned a wounded face. "Now, J.T. You said I could play with her awhile." Morrison rolled his eyes and Van Clefe turned the topic of conversation back to Charlie. "It sounds as if your little friend has been invited back?" Morrison just smiled beatifically and nodded. "I'm not sure how long we can control the natives," Martin pointed out. "The regulars are used to having a much better time at your soirees than we did last night."

J.T. turned a bored eye toward the foothills. "We can turn it up a notch," he yawned. "And you know the hard-core partiers always have the other affair, on Saturday nights. I'll see how he reacts. I'll have my sommelier stock the cellar with something really impressive; turns out Dr. Eppes has quite the palate. Fancies himself an expert, no doubt."

Van Clefe had finished his meal and now pushed the plate away. He nodded, thinking, wondering how far to go. "By all means, get him drunk first," he advised. "Perhaps you should even enhance the wine with a few well-chosen pharmaceuticals." Morrison tilted his head a little, a dead give-away that he was considering the suggestion. Martin cleared his throat and continued. "I had the girl at the office do some research. ' Google' and what-not."

J.T.'s eyes narrowed as he turned them fully upon his friend again. "Martin…" His voice was a warning.

Van Clefe held up a hand, palm-forward. "Someone needs to protect your interests, J.T. Heaven knows when you get…fixated…like this, you can't be bothered with it! Besides, I'm an entertainment lawyer, and he has a book on the Times' 'Best Sellers' list. I'm sure several of my colleagues have already approached him with offers of representation. One more attorney looking into his background won't set off any alarms, even if he figures it out."

Morrison looked somewhat mollified, but Martin could tell he wouldn't get away with much more. "Look. According to his bio, he has a brother who's a fed. I'm just asking you to be careful, J.T. – for your own good."

Morrison let his eyes roam to the horizon again. "When he's relaxed, I'll ask a few discrete questions about the brother – you say it's in his bio? Public knowledge?" Van Clefe nodded. "Then he won't be surprised that I know," J.T. mused. Suddenly he laughed loudly, and graced Martin with a brilliant smile. "That's good," he chortled, "because I have all sorts of other surprises in store!"

…………………………………..

Amita was at the Craftsman bright and early Saturday morning, in time for waffles. It was a pleasant meal; Charlie entertained his father and his fiancé with grand descriptions of his evening. He spoke of the wine so lovingly, he nearly waxed poetic.

Amita was trying very hard not to think about her own odd behavior the evening before. The constant work of 'not thinking' made her nervous and jumpy, and terrified that someone would notice. So, she kept plying Charlie with questions, trying to keep the focus on him. "Is that all you did all night?" she laughed now. "Hide in the wine cellar with your host and drink him out of house and home?"

Alan smiled, but added his own two cents' worth. "I certainly hope you didn't drive home intoxicated at – what – one in the morning?"

Charlie rolled his eyes, accepting a carafe of maple syrup from Amita. "The answer to both of your questions is 'No'. We had two glasses each of the Lafite, early in the evening. There was a bar out by the pool, but I stuck with water the rest of the night."

He poured some of the syrup onto his waffles and passed it on to his father.

Alan shook his head. "I still can't believe you went swimming. Surrounded by strangers – famous ones, at that. You're usually much more shy, Charlie!"

Amita swallowed a bite of her waffle and nudged Charlie with her elbow. "So what kind of party was it, exactly? A pool party?"

Charlie shrugged, reaching for his milk. "I couldn't detect a pattern. I'd need more data. Things seemed to be going on all over. J.T. has a media room, and I watched some of the rushes from his latest movie in there for a while with lots of other people. Of course, there was the usual party stuff; groups standing or sitting, laughing over drinks and talking." He gulped some milk and set the glass down, glancing at Alan. "You'll get a kick out of this: In one of the dens, or game rooms – I can't remember, the house is gigantic – anyway, there was a chess match going on!"

Alan blinked at him. "Really?"

Charlie smiled. "Not only that, I recognized one of the men playing – Trevor Miles." Alan just looked at him blankly until Charlie sighed and provided more details. "He's an actor. _'Wild Tomorrow'_?"

"_Wild Tomorrow_?" Alan repeated. "What kind of sense does that make?"

Amita giggled. "I'm not sure I know that one either, Charlie – and it disturbs me not a little that _you_ do!"

He looked at her and grinned sheepishly. "I don't, actually. I could have the name wrong. J.T. was telling me about him; he's built quite a reputation as a scholar and a chess player, apparently." He faced his father again and winked. "Pretty rudimentary stuff, if you ask me. I think you could take him."

The three concentrated on their meals for a few minutes until Charlie suddenly laughed. "I'm not sure I fit into this crowd. My knees turned to rubber out by the pool when a naked woman floated by."

Amita's eyes widened for a brief moment – long enough for Alan's fork to clatter to the table. "Charles Eppes! You're an engaged man, now!"

Charlie started to respond but Amita did it for him. "That doesn't mean he's dead," she said, thinking not so much of the naked starlet as she was of the fully-clothed Rastenbaum. "Or blind…" she hesitated when she felt both men looking at her and tried not to blush. She went on defensively. "I'm just saying. I think it's perfectly rational to notice when a naked woman floats by at a party." She glanced at Charlie, a little desperate, now. "I mean, if we never looked at anyone else ever again, the fact that we willingly choose each other over all of those other people wouldn't mean as much, right?"

Charlie's eyes crinkled and he smiled. "I don't know if I should be relieved that you understand or curious about whom you've been observing," he teased.

"Shut-up," Amita muttered, losing the battle of the blush and turning back to her breakfast. "See if I ever come down on your side again."

Charlie and Alan both laughed. "J.T. said that I'm welcome at his parties anytime," Charlie informed the table. "He even indicated that I could spend the night in one of the guest suites if I had too much to drink." Both Amita and his father looked at him curiously, and he stammered on before they could protest. "I know it's…quite unlike me, but I found the whole thing remarkably relaxing. I've been so tense, lately." He looked troubled, and laid his silverware down, finished with his half-eaten meal. "The whole clearance thing, and the way Don is acting about it…I didn't really know how badly I just needed some time way from it; a distraction."

Amita shot him a wary look. "You're planning to go to another party?"

"You're right," Alan noted at the same time. "Relaxation is quite unlike you." Charlie snorted and his father went on. "Perhaps you and Don should do something together on some of those free Friday evenings while Amita is working. The two of you have to find a way to get over this, you know."

Charlie answered in a sullen voice. "He's with Robin a lot. Besides," he sulked, "_I'm_ not the one who's having a hard time adjusting to my new clearance-free status. _He's_ the one who keeps baiting me, the one who hardly ever comes over anymore." He was warming up to the argument now, and raised his voice a little. "Where is he_ now_?" he challenged. "When I was his personal calculator, he used to come and have breakfast with us almost every Saturday!"

Alan had heard all he cared to hear. "That's enough, Charlie," he huffed, standing to return his plate to the kitchen. "I swear, the two of you! I'm about to call Dr. Bradford myself and ask for a group rate." He picked up his silverware and stormed past his son, through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Charlie stared in a dark and silent fury at his drowning waffle. Amita had missed the whole change of tone, and most of the conversation. She was concentrating hard, trying not to think about Dr. Dane Rastenbaum's butt.

……………………………………………..

Colby speared a sausage link with his fork and shook it in Don's general direction. "This is just the kind of case that really makes me miss the Whiz Kid. He could save us a lot of time on this."

David sipped his ice water and silently rehearsed his lines. He'd let Colby talk him into this little performance on the drive from the crime scene to the diner, but now, seeing the look on Don's face, he was a little nervous about the whole thing.

Don scowled at Colby over a fistful of breakfast sandwich. "We're not talking about this," he declared. "You said we should stop for breakfast and salvage what we could of our Saturday morning off, and I agreed. I never would have if I thought you had an agenda."

Colby regarded him with innocent and hurt eyes, chewing the link and then swallowing it down. "Agenda? No, man. I was just thinking about all that encrypted information on the vic's computer, that's all." He looked to his partner for help. "Dave, don't you think connecting that with Charlie was a natural progression?"

David cleared his throat, looking at the grease beginning to congeal on his over-easy eggs. "What?" Colby kicked him hard under the table and he jerked. "Oh. Right. The computer. Wish Charlie could help us with that."

Colby rolled his eyes and Don's burned fire. "Well he _can't_," he spit. "He threw away his clearance and the files are encrypted; until the code is broken we don't know what level of security is required on this case."

Colby, having just shoveled a forkful of hash browns in his mouth, gulped some water and returned the glass rather forcefully to the table. "Point taken," he answered seriously. "Maybe Charlie can't help us on this one – but Don, what about the half-dozen other open cases on your desk?"

Don's eyes narrowed, and David suddenly remembered his lines. "Colby's got a point too, Don. Not all of our cases require security clearance. Hell, I remember when Charlie first started working with us; we didn't even know he _had_ clearance, until the CDC called him in on that virus case.

Don sighed. "Et tu, Brutus?" he groaned in David's direction. He laid down his fork and slumped tiredly against the back of the booth.

Colby veered off-script, his heart going out to his friend. "It's not really the work, Don; we can handle the work." He grinned. "Maybe a little more slowly, but still."

David chimed in with his own ad lib. "Right. Actually, it's not right. Charlie never comes by the office, anymore. Even your Dad meets you there for lunch on a regular basis. You hardly ever talk about going by the house, or just…hangin', with Charlie."

Colby nodded, taking over again. "Look, if Megan was still here we'd make her do the dirty work. This kind of touchy-feely stuff was always her responsibility. Fact is she ain't here anymore; the three of us gotta have each other's backs, ya know?"

David shook his head and smiled a little. "I think he's trying to say we're just…kinda worried, about both of you," he translated. He looked fondly at his partner. "You should have stuck with the script."

Despite himself, Don laughed. "You guys had a script?" The other agents shrugged and while he tried to feel indignant that they had set him up, Don was oddly touched by their concern. "Yeah," he finally admitted, sitting up a little, "I've been hearing the same kind of thing from Dad. Even Robin thinks I'm being too hard on him."

Colby looked sadly at his empty plate. "Well there you have it," he commented. "Tell you what – ask him to join the three of us for lunch some day next week. He can let us know how things are going with Amita. You know – guy talk."

Don had been about to spill the engagement news himself, but now he stopped himself and chuckled. "I suppose there could be some news on that front," he said instead. He pushed the small saucer containing his last piece of toast toward Colby. "Knock yourself out."

Colby's entire face brightened and he smiled broadly, reaching for the toast as if he hadn't just finished his own meal and half of David's. "Thanks!" he crowed.

Don smiled fondly and sincerely at both his partners. "No," he murmured. "Thank _you_."

………………………………………………..

End, Chapter 5

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_**A/N: Because this site deprived the loyal Raccoon fan her Monday fix -- and in rampant fear that said site shall glitch again prior to Thursday -- two chapters will be posted for your enjoyment on this day (Tues., 2-24-09)**_


	6. Fashionably Late

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 6: Fashionably Late**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Thursday at a few minutes before noon, Charlie rubbed his forehead with a bemused smile, and repeated into the receiver. "He's counting on me to be there. Okay. Same time Friday night? All right, Ramon, you can tell him I plan on it, and thank you." He hung up, shook his head, and stared at his desktop with faint incredulity in his smile. How had he gotten to the point in life where he was on a first-name basis with J. T. Morrison's personal assistant? Even more astounding, the big guy himself was calling with weekly invitations. He glanced at his watch as he rose from his desk; he had plans to eat lunch with Amita in her office. Wait until she got a load of the latest invitation – Ramon had dropped names of the attendees; including everyone from the latest Hollywood A-list stars to sports phenoms. More intriguing to Charlie were the international businessmen, who sometimes included technical specialists. There was always someone interesting from the scientific community there – granted; they tended to be involved in far-out projects, on the fringes of sensational, but they certainly made for fascinating conversations.

He'd been spending more time with Amita, lately; it was only natural, he thought to himself, since they were going to be husband and wife. The time he spent with her, the Friday nights at the Morrison estate, the many projects he was working on, all conspired to make it appear as though his life was full. In truth, however, in terms of the people to whom he was really close, his circle was shrinking. Since he wasn't consulting, he didn't spend time with Don's team, and God only knew, he and Don were barely speaking, much less spending time together. The departure of Larry had hurt more than he wanted to acknowledge; for the first time in many years he was without his close friend and mentor. His small group of acquaintances had taken a drastic hit, and in reality, had diminished to only Amita and his father. He counted on her these days more than he cared to admit.

It was with a twinge of disappointment, then, when he walked into her office to see Dr. Dane Rastenbaum lounging in a chair across from her desk. Amita already had her lunch out and was gesturing animatedly with a half-sandwich in one hand as she argued a point of logic in one of their equations. Charlie stopped to admire her from the doorway; her face alight, her eyes flashing as she made her case. God, she was beautiful, especially when she was like this - her eyes alive with intelligence. He began to ease into the room, trying not to interrupt her conversation, but the movement made her head turn, and a slight scowl passed over her face at the interruption, until she saw it was Charlie. "Oh, Charlie, I hope you don't mind if Dane sits in on our lunch. He stopped earlier with a question, and I told him we could discuss it at lunchtime."

"Of course not," said Charlie affably, as he settled into a chair next to Rastenbaum. In fact, he thought, the discussion might be interesting.

Amita, for some reason, found the arrangement unexpectedly disconcerting. With the two men sitting across from her, both lounging easily with attentive smiles on their faces and an undeniable gleam of attraction in their eyes, she couldn't help but compare them. Charlie was slight, not much taller than she was, although his body, as she knew well, was tight, with wiry muscles, the package topped with those sexy, adorable dark curls. His performance in bed was more than satisfying; he had boundless energy– what he lacked in experience with women he made up for in eagerness to please. The expression on his face personified that – he was looking at her with open admiration and love on his face; he hadn't the guile to hide it.

Dane's expression on the other hand, while also admiring, smacked of experience and sophistication. He had a worldly gleam in his eye and an amused smile on his face that made her feel flustered; he looked almost as if he was imagining what it would be like for them to be in bed together, and when she looked at his tall muscular body, so different from Charlie's, it made her wonder, herself. She pushed the thoughts away impatiently; she was an engaged woman, for God's sake, she couldn't be thinking like this. Thank goodness for the current sticky little problem with their equations; it gave her something on which to focus.

Focus she did, until class time, and with a start, she realized that she'd been directing her points almost entirely to Dane, and had virtually ignored Charlie. It wasn't Charlie's project, she reminded herself, but she couldn't deny the slightly disappointed look on his face, as he packed up the uneaten portion of his lunch – the better part of it, from the looks of it. "Charlie, I'm sorry, I hadn't planned for the discussion to take so much time."

Charlie gave her a quiet smile. "Nonsense, don't apologize; it was interesting to hear."

Rastenbaum had risen and collected his things. "Yes, she's right," he said smoothly. "I do apologize – I'll leave you two alone." He looked at Amita. "I'm still not entirely convinced, although you do make some good points." Was it her imagination, or did his gaze flicker to her chest at that last comment? She flushed a little as he continued. "We can pick it up tomorrow night."

"Sure," she said, and turned to Charlie as Dane walked out. "I really am sorry." Why did she feel the need to apologize, she wondered? God, she felt uncomfortable.

"That's okay," he said again. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Tonight?" she looked at him blankly. "What was tonight?"

He managed, just barely, to keep his face from dropping. "We were going to ride out to Santa Monica."

"Oh, God, we were," she lamented. "Oh, Charlie, I really can't. I have tests to grade tonight – I am _so_ behind. Can we do it this weekend?"

"Sure," he responded automatically. He was disappointed, but in fact, he had tests of his own to grade. "Not Friday night, of course – you're meeting with Dr. Rastenbaum, and I've got another function at Morrison's."

Her eyes widened a little, and suddenly the tables were turned; she felt just a twinge of jealousy. She would love to go with him to see it, just once. "Again? Wow – he must have really taken a shine to you." She smiled. "Although I can't blame him."

He felt a warm glow at her last statement, but shrugged, deprecatingly. "I'm a novelty – I'm sure it'll wear off soon."

"I know," she said, brightening as the thought occurred to her. "We can get up early Saturday; go for a longer drive – maybe Big Sur – maybe do a picnic, some hiking?"

He grinned, for some reason feeling relieved. "Sure, that sounds much better anyway." He took a step forward and gave her a quick kiss. "I'll see you Saturday then, if I don't see you tomorrow."

………………………

He didn't. Friday evening rolled around and Amita reflected, as she hurriedly dialed for pizza, that she hadn't seen Charlie since lunchtime the day before. He'd called her last evening to wish her goodnight, but she'd been in the shower, and had missed the call. By the time she'd realized he'd left the message, it was late – too late to call him back. She'd explain Saturday morning, she'd decided – Charlie had told her he would pick her up at 8:30 a.m. Right now, she needed to get prepared for her session with Dane. They'd agreed to meet in her office, order a pizza, and work through the evening.

The project was huge, intense, and mind-boggling, but it was exciting. She enjoyed the heated discussions she had with Dane, the verbal sparring – it was a bit like flirting, in math lingo. The thought made her feel slightly guilty, but she pushed it away. Really, she thought, how nerdy did you have to be to feel guilty about bandying equations back and forth? Charlie must be rubbing off on her.

As the evening wore on, however, she realized that wasn't the only rubbing that was going on. As she moved toward the board to explain a point, Dane had shifted away to make room in the cramped space in front of the board, and his arm casually brushed hers.

"Sorry," he said quietly, but his intense gaze made Amita suspect that he was anything but sorry.

She shook herself mentally as soon as she had the thought; she was reading way too much into this. "No problem."

She launched back into the discussion, and had forgotten about the brief contact, until she backed away from the board – right into Dane. He had moved behind her while she'd been working, and surprised, she stumbled a bit. He caught her from behind, grabbing her arms to steady her.

"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. "I didn't mean to startle you." He held her for just a moment longer than necessary, and she could feel his chest, lightly touching her back, smell the scent of him.

"That's okay," she stammered, pulling away from him, blushing to the roots of her hair. Dear God, she was breathing heavily. "I just didn't know you were back there." She shot a surreptitious glance behind her to see him smiling, with the same amused, seductive smile he'd worn earlier. The phone rang, saving her, and she all but ran across the room to get it. "Oh," she breathed with relief, "the pizza's here. I'll just run down and get it."

…………………………..

"Pizza's here!" called Alan cheerfully, as he crossed the room to get the door.

Charlie finished buttoning his new shirt, and looked down at it, giving it a tug, as Alan swung the door open. "Dad, I told you, I didn't have time. I'm going to Morrison's tonight."

"Donnie!" exclaimed his father, beaming, and shooting a glance at Charlie to be sure he'd heard. "What a nice surprise."

Charlie glanced up scowling, and looked back down, pretending to fiddle with a button on his shirt. "Well, look who decided to make an appearance," he muttered. Don had come over a week and a half ago to complain that he hadn't been told about the engagement, and hadn't been back since – not even a phone call to ask him about the wedding, he thought. His brother apparently couldn't care less about one of the biggest events in his younger brother's life. He looked up, his expression cool. "Don." The name dropped from his lips like an ice cube.

Don stared at him and looked uncertain for a moment, but then an equally guarded expression came over his face. "Nice shirt, Chuck. You going out with Amita?"

Charlie grabbed his jacket and swung it over his shoulder, heading for the door. "She's working tonight. I'm heading up to Morrison's."

Alan stood his ground, next to Don in the doorway. "Certainly you can stick around for a slice of pizza," he protested. "It's gauche to be early – or even on time."

Charlie hesitated. His father was right, he knew. The last time, he'd been a few minutes late, and was still one of the first guests to arrive. He sighed, and tossed his jacket on the sofa. There was no need to go running out of his own house, just because Don was there. "Yeah, maybe I should wait a while," he mumbled. He shot a furtive glance at Don as he stepped around the sofa, and his brother followed him, settling in a chair as Charlie took a seat.

Alan bustled toward the kitchen. "Anyone want a beer?"

"I will, thanks," said Don.

"No thanks," said Charlie. Silence fell, and they stared at each other.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "So how's work?"

Don shrugged. "The usual."

Charlie looked away and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to rat on you to the North Koreans, you know."

Don began to frown; then a grin crept to his face, unexpectedly. "Yeah, but you may spill to the tabloids, when they interview about your hot night life."

Charlie tried to keep a stern expression, but the grin on his brother's face made his lips quirk a little. They looked at each other, and for a moment, it felt like old times, like the blossoming camaraderie they'd been developing before Charlie had lost his clearance.

Don rubbed his head. "Yeah, Colby and David made the point that not all of our cases require clearance. I s'pose I could talk about those."

Alan came back out, holding two beers, and handed one to Don. He looked at Charlie. "Are you sure you don't want one?"

"No, I'm driving, and I've got to leave soon." Charlie looked back at Don, about to prompt him to elaborate, but Don was frowning again.

"What are you going back up there for, anyway?" Don said.

Charlie shrugged defensively and looked away. Just like that, the moment was gone. "It's a good opportunity to promote my book. And maybe I just want to go. It's an interesting crowd."

Don snorted. "Yeah, I bet."

"There was a nude woman floating in the pool at one party," Alan offered helpfully.

"There were also a couple of senators, and a nuclear physicist who just happened to win the Nobel prize," Charlie shot back. "And writers, publishers, and business moguls, along with the movie stars. They weren't all airheads."

Don took a drink of beer, and shook his head. "I still say it's a waste of your time, at best, and not the kind of crowd you should hang with."

"I'll be the judge of that," muttered Charlie.

"Oh, yeah, like your selection of Pakistani email buddies. Now there was some good judgment," Don retorted. "D'you think hanging with this crowd is gonna get you your clearance back?"

"Don," admonished Alan, but Charlie had heard enough. He got to his feet and grabbed his jacket.

"Sure, waltz into my house, drink my beer, and tell me what to do," he snapped, as he headed toward the door. "I've got better ways to spend my time. I'll see you later, Dad." He slammed the door behind him, and Don glowered, but his shoulders slumped a little. He'd intended for this to be a peacemaking visit, and instead, it had turned into another argument. Their relationship was mired in muck and sinking deeper by the day – and he hadn't the foggiest idea of what to do about it. He glanced up, took one look at his father's despondent expression, and downed the rest of his beer.

…………………………

Charlie gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles on the way up Mulholland. Really, he thought, it was starting to become obvious – Don had control issues. He apparently missed bossing Charlie around on cases, and so was channeling his overbearing attitude toward Charlie's personal life instead. The idea, the gall of it, made him furious, so angry that it almost eclipsed the sense of loss he felt, deep underneath. His relationship with Don was going under, sinking like the Titanic, and he had no idea how to stop it.

Right at the moment, though, he was so thoroughly pissed that he almost didn't care. Who in the hell did Don think he was, anyway? Where did he get off trying to tell him who could or could not be his friends? "He's got another think coming," he muttered to himself as he wheeled sharply into the gated entrance, and waited to be admitted. Don was jealous; he was sure – jealous that Charlie was moving up in the world, envious of his success. All of his life, Don had been the popular one, and now that the tables were turned, his brother couldn't deal with it. Well, it was just too bad. He would be friends with whoever he damn well pleased.

He nearly leapt out of the Prius, handing over his keys and cell phone to the valet abstractedly. Another valet stepped aside and hit speed dial, murmuring into his cell phone. "He's here, sir."

"Thank you," said Morrison into the phone. He was already hovering near the doorway; the professor was a half hour late, and Morrison had begun to fear he wasn't coming. He was speaking with a wealthy young French playboy and his well-endowed partner, a local Hollywood hopeful, who had just landed a role in a torrid-sounding B flick, and J.T. maneuvered so that he could see the door. As his doorman opened it and Morrison saw Charlie step in and glance around, he felt an instant surge of heat, which manifested itself as only a flicker in his eyes. He pointed the couple to the bar, and excused himself, noting as he walked toward the professor that he looked decidedly out of sorts.

"Charlie!" he greeted him with a smile, and a two-handed clasp. The touch of Charlie's skin sent a jolt of electricity through him. His tone became teasing as he turned to escort Charlie into the room. "Fashionably late, I see."

Charlie was already flushed, and his color deepened. Although he was trying to hide it, Morrison caught a glimpse of residual anger on his face. "I'm sorry," said Charlie. "I got held up."

"Nothing serious, I hope," murmured J.T.

"No, just – frustrating."

Morrison threw an arm over Charlie's shoulders, and smiled, as he guided him toward the bar. "Well, we'll park all of that at the door, shall we? Let's get you a drink." _'Make that several,_' Morrison thought to himself. He intended to get to know Charles Eppes better before the night was over, not only to get information about him, but also to find out if his fed brother would pose a problem – and most importantly, to begin to set up a relationship with the young man. He was trying to follow the advice of his lawyer and take things slowly, but as he gave Charlie's shoulder what he hoped was a friendly squeeze, he knew that was going to be much harder than it sounded.

…………………………

End Chapter 6

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	7. Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 7: Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Charlie downed another healthy swallow of his margarita, and surveyed the crowd. This week's party had an island theme – complete with tropical drinks and exotic appetizers. He was on his second margarita; he'd downed the first, still seething over his argument with Don. The second was beginning to sink in, and as he swayed a little, he realized belatedly that the drinks packed more of a punch than he'd thought. He was starting to relax, however, and as he looked around the room, he realized that the partygoers this week seemed much different from the week before.

This was a looser-looking, faster crowd by far, and a lot less inhibited. One couple was blatantly necking in the corner already, and Charlie blushed a little and looked away. The group in which he was standing was discussing what had sounded like an interesting movie, until he realized that they were talking about a porn flick, and he decided to go for a stroll. His walk threatened to weave a little, and he moved carefully through the room, and headed toward the far wing. There was another new movie in the screening room, apparently, an advance copy of a highly anticipated release, but it was well underway, and Amita had said she wanted to see it, so Charlie decided not to watch. Instead, he ambled back down the hallway, aimlessly following a woman into the other wing.

He hadn't been into that part of the building before, and realized that it was the wing that held the guest suites that his host had mentioned the week before. A door was open to one of them, and he peered in, gaping. The room was huge, with two king-sized canopy beds, a flat screen television the size of Charlie's car, luxuriously upholstered furniture and its own bar. Through a door, he could glimpse a marble bathroom with a huge whirlpool tub. He took another swig of his drink, shaking his head in amazement, and proceeded down the hall. He could hear voices, music and laughter coming from a room up ahead, and he headed towards it, stopping short at the doorway.

It was open a few inches, and the sight inside stopped him short. Several people, at least six, were in the room, and involved in some serious necking. One woman already had her shirt off, and none of them appeared to care that there were others in the room. He jerked his head away, and turned back down the hall in shock, almost darting into Morrison himself.

"There you are," exclaimed Morrison, and looked with puzzlement at Charlie's stunned expression. He stepped around him and looked into the room, pretending surprise. He knew well what was going on inside; it wasn't an uncommon occurrence for couples or groups to disappear to his guest suites, and he had a housekeeping staff continually refresh the rooms during the evening. He knew he had to tread carefully with his new interest, however, and so he shook his head, saying, "This is how they repay their host." He took Charlie by the arm. "Come on – I'm going to have my security people roust them."

Charlie was beet-red by then, but he stammered, "You don't need to do that on my account. It's really none of my business."

Morrison sighed. "This is why my parties get the reputation they do." He smiled at Charlie conspiratorially, releasing his arm and guiding him down the hall with a gentle touch on his back. "Not that I'm against a good time – I just need to maintain some kind of order. Don't worry – my security people will be discreet – I don't want to ruffle any feathers." He glanced down at Charlie's drink. "That was fine for a starter, but I imagine you'd rather have some wine – and so would I. Give me a minute, and we'll take a trip down to the tasting room."

Before Charlie could protest, he stepped away and spoke to a large man in a suit, who Charlie had assumed was one of the guests, but apparently was a bodyguard or security of some type. Returning, Morrison led the way to yet another hallway, and a small elevator. "I took you down the stairs last week," said Morrison, "but at this end of the house we're closer to the elevator." Not to mention the fact that the professor already looked unsteady on his feet, he thought.

Downstairs, they wound their way through what appeared to be yet more guestrooms, which Charlie hadn't seen the week before. In fact, he was becoming a bit disoriented. As they made the end of the hallway, Charlie saw the stairs and got his bearings, following Morrison into the tasting room, a dark cozy room with a fireplace, leather furniture, and a humidor, with venting for the cigar smoke, for those who wanted to indulge in one of Morrison's fine Cubans. Morrison retrieved a bottle of wine, and poured them each a healthy glass, and they sank into facing leather chairs.

Charlie sniffed at it appreciably, before tasting it. "That's a Chateau Latour Pauillac, 1990," his host said. "Do you like it?"

"Wow," said Charlie, after the burst of flavor had subsided, trying to pick out the subtle after tones. "It's great." He took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through his body. "You know, I appreciate this, but you really don't have to baby-sit me."

Morrison threw his head back and laughed, revealing strong even white teeth. "It's my pleasure, believe me. In my business, I need to do a lot of entertaining to keep up my contacts, but frankly, I find the parties get a bit old, especially when I have a crowd like tonight's. They're not exactly scintillating conversationalists. As you can see, my guest list varies from week to week – I try to keep the lowbrows in one group, and my more cerebral guests in another. To be truthful, you don't belong in this group, but I invited you for my own sanity. I was hoping we could escape and have a civilized conversation."

The young man looked flattered, and Morrison gently led him into a conversation by starting out with details of his own youth, most of which were false, but the professor wouldn't know that. In truth, Morrison generally enjoyed his parties, and had ended up more than once with some of his guests in the guest rooms, but only after the party had ended and the majority of revelers had gone. Charlie's reaction, however, had made him cautious. They young man was more naïve than he'd thought, and judging by the young woman he'd been with at the restaurant, heterosexual. There was nothing like alcohol to loosen a person up, however, and Morrison poured liberally as they talked. By the time he got around to asking questions about Charlie, the professor was more than a little inebriated, and it didn't take much to provoke some venting.

"So your brother's in the FBI. That must be interesting. You said you did consulting – do you ever work together?"

Charlie's expression darkened, and he looked away. "We used to. We don't really get along that well anymore, since - ,"

Morrison's eyebrows rose. "Since?"

Charlie paused, and looked back at him. Truthfully, he was longing for someone to talk to about what had happened, and Morrison seemed so sympathetic. Plus, Charlie figured if the man hadn't been rattled by what looked to be the beginnings of an orgy, then he wouldn't think twice about someone losing a security clearance. So he told him – about Don, about the consulting, about losing his clearance and why. Much to his gratification, Morrison was extremely sympathetic – or at least so he thought; he was getting somewhat fuzzyheaded.

"I think it's admirable," Morrison said, with feeling. "Heroic, even. You stood up for your principles, for the lives of others, at your own expense. Your family must have been extremely proud." Secretly, he couldn't have cared less, except for the fact that the professor now seemed to be on the wrong side of the law – a plus as far as Morrison was concerned.

"Not really," Charlie said glumly. "Don couldn't understand it – for him, the law is the law, and I broke it. I let him down, and he's let me know it. We really don't talk much anymore. And my dad's upset because we don't."

Morrison's eyes glinted. The news was getting better. "And what do your friends think?"

Charlie sighed. "Well, I don't see much of Don's team, anymore. We weren't really close, but I thought I'd gotten to be friends, especially with a couple of them." He fell silent, thinking of the time he'd confided in Colby after the attempt on his life, and of David watching over him, more than once, when Don felt he'd needed protection. Those days were over - he was on his own now. "My closest friend at school, Professor Fleinhardt, has always supported me, but he moved recently, to Washington, D.C." He brightened a little. "My fiancée, though, has been great about it."

Morrison pursed his lips. His fiancée – the competition. "That must have been the lovely young woman I saw at the restaurant. Have you set a date?"

"No, we really have no definite plans – it will probably be at least two years before we figure it out. Her family's from India; and Amita's not even sure which country the wedding will be in, yet."

Morrison leaned forward and poured Charlie another glass of wine, and sat back, listening and thinking. He had a penchant for young men and abusive relationships, and his eyes wandered over the professor's face, following his neckline down to the shoulders, the torso, wondering how it would feel to subdue him, to humiliate him. His first long relationship had been with Ramon, his personal assistant, who had a craving for abuse, and was hopelessly in love with his employer. Morrison rarely dallied with Ramon anymore; he'd found it more exciting to pursue new prey, preferably someone inexperienced, naïve – someone he could destroy, dismantle, defile. His lawyer, van Clefe, suspected some of it; he'd had to help smooth things over once or twice with some of Morrison's earlier liaisons.

Since then, J.T. had gotten smart. He selected only upstanding citizens in the community, or young actors with a definite future – anyone with a lot to lose if word got out of an illicit relationship. The trick was to get them into an initial compromising position, take photos and video, and the rest was pure blackmail – Morrison found it easy to get them to do his bidding, they were so desperate for secrecy. Van Clefe, of course, wasn't aware of that – all he knew was that for the last two years, Morrison had apparently kept to consensual relationships with young men. He smiled, as he watched Charlie take another sip of wine, and his eyes lingered on the young man's lips. Consensual – nothing could be further from the truth.

The professor had presented an especially sticky problem, with a federal agent for a brother. Morrison had done some research, and was dismayed to find that the professor had consulted for government agencies. He hadn't been quite ready to abandon him, however – hell, the fact was he couldn't stop thinking about him, and it had been a pleasant surprise to find out that he had apparently put himself on the wrong side of law, and alienated himself from his brother. Morrison would further that; he always began by befriending his victims, and slowly but inexorably drove a wedge between them and their friends and family. The young man was at a low point in his life, apparently – the only truly close relationships he appeared to have were those with his father and his fiancée. Of those, the fiancée appeared to be the biggest problem. As Morrison listened to Charlie, by now slurring his speech, talk enthusiastically about their planned trip to Big Sur in the morning, he saw an opportunity.

"It sounds wonderful," he said, as he rose to open another bottle of wine.

"Oh, thas okay," Charlie tried to wave him off when he realized that Morrison was going for more wine. "I have to sstop so I can drive home – I have to get up early in th'morning." He frowned, blinked, and rubbed his eyes, obviously trying to straighten out his vision.

Morrison had already stepped into the wine cellar, and the soft thunk of a cork being withdrawn from the bottle made Charlie wince.

"What was that?" Morrison called out, pretending not to hear.

Charlie sighed. The wine Morrison had just opened had undoubtedly cost a fortune – to be polite, he should drink some of it – just one more glass; he told himself. He peered at his watch. It was still early – if he stopped after this glass, he'd have a few hours to sober up before he drove home.

Morrison shot a quick glance out through the doorway to make sure the professor was staying put, and pulled out two fresh glasses from the shelves, then quickly felt for a button, disguised as wood paneling, on the side of the case. A small door hidden below popped open and he poked at the contents with a forefinger until he found the pillbox with the drug he wanted, extracting a capsule. He slipped the drawer shut and opened the capsule, pouring the contents into a glass, following it with wine. It was a powerful sedative, and was somewhat dangerous on top of that much alcohol, but Morrison had experience with it – lots of it.

He carried the two glasses into the room and handed the one with the sedative to Charlie, then ducked back in to retrieve the bottle, displaying it. "This one's a Chateaux Margaux 1995," he said, smiling. "Try this."

"That's good," Charlie conceded after a sip. He really didn't like it quite as well as the one before it – it had a slightly bitter taste, but it was still far superior to anything else he'd ever had outside of Morrison's estate. He smiled apologetically. "I can only have one more glass, though."

Morrison smiled back. '_That's all you'll need_,' he thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "Of course. I understand - you have your outing tomorrow."

Less than twenty minutes later, he pulled the glass from the professor's nearly nerveless fingers, and as the young man's head drooped and his eyes shut, he called for Ramon. Between the two of them, they managed to carry the limp form into a nearby guest room.

"Strip him down to his underwear," Morrison instructed, "he should be comfortable."

Ramon shot him a glance that said he knew that Morrison had other motives than wanting the young man comfortable. His long-lashed eyes flashed with jealousy, and he pouted slightly, but he did as he was told, removing Charlie's clothes and hanging them neatly in the closet, then silently leaving the room.

Morrison surveyed the boxer-clad figure on the bed, and swallowed, trying to contain the untoward urges the sight generated. He could take him now, he knew – but Morrison wanted him aware enough to know what was happening, when the time came. His eyes roved over the lean limbs, he traced a finger over the young man's cheek, and touched his dark curls. Then he pulled the comforter over the unconscious form, stepped out, and shut the door.

………………………………………………………………………………

Alan paced nervously behind the sofa, and glanced at the clock, although it was only two minutes since the last time he looked at it – 9:33 a.m. "Maybe we should try to call the estate."

Don was lounging on the sofa in sweatpants and a T-shirt, nursing a coffee and a bit of a hangover – he'd had a few too many beers last night, downed in the aftermath of his argument with Charlie. He grimaced. "I don't think you're gonna find that number in the phone book, Dad. Give it a rest – sit down. I'm sure he's fine."

"He's not answering his cell," Alan fumed, still pacing. "We have no idea if he even made it up there last night. All those winding roads – he could have gone over an edge."

"Of course he's not answering his cell," grouched Don. The conversation was hurting his head, and although he was trying to downplay it for his father's sake, he was worried himself. "They take their cell phones before they go in, remember?"

The phone rang before he could continue, and Alan lurched across the room and snatched the receiver. "Hello?" His eyes widened, he glanced at Don, and hit the speaker button. "Yes, Mr. Morrison, how are you?" Don arched an eyebrow and looked at him over the back of the sofa.

"I wasn't certain," came the smooth voice over the line, "but thought I remembered that Charlie said you lived at his home with him, and I feared you might be concerned about him. I wanted to let you know, he's fine. He had a bit too much wine last night – my fault, I'm afraid, and is sleeping it off here. I'll make sure he gets home all right."

"Oh, thank you," Alan stammered, obviously slightly star-struck. "We _were_ a bit worried – it's very kind of you to call."

"Not a problem." The voice floated out over the phone. "He's quite a remarkable young man; I enjoyed our conversation last evening."

They exchanged good-byes, and Alan hung up the phone, with a sigh of relief. No sooner had he done so, than it rang again, and he lifted the receiver, again hitting the speaker button. "Hello?"

"Alan?" Amita's voice came over the line, sounding slightly perturbed. "Is Charlie there?"

"No, dear, he isn't home yet."

"Isn't home yet? From the party?" Amita sounded incredulous.

Alan glanced at Don, guiltily. "I just got a phone call from Mr. Morrison – apparently Charlie drank a little too much to drive home, and spent the night at the estate. Did you need something specifically?"

Her voice now sounded as though she was trying to keep the anger out of it. "He was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 this morning for a drive up to Big Sur," she said.

Don's eyebrows rose, and he smirked a little. "Ooh, he's busted," he murmured.

"What?" asked Amita, crossly.

Alan shook his head warningly at Don. "Nothing, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't realize that."

Amita sounded impatient. "It's not your fault, Alan. Do you have any idea when he'll be in?"

Alan gaped and looked at Don for help. Don shrugged. "You'd better tell her not to wait around," he said.

"What?" repeated Amita.

"We were just saying you shouldn't wait," Alan said to the phone. "We're not sure."

There was a moment of silence, then an icy, "Okay, thanks, Alan. I'll talk to you later."

"Good-bye, dear."

Alan hit disconnect, and shook his head. "Well, he certainly didn't score any points with Amita."

Don snorted. "I should say not. She probably got up early to get ready." He took a sip of coffee. '_Serves him right,_' he thought to himself, self-righteously. '_I told him that crowd was trouble._' Still, the whole thing was unnerving. He had never known Charlie to get so inebriated he couldn't make it home – hell, Charlie hardly ever drank enough to get slightly tipsy. He took another drink, and tried to swallow the uneasy feeling that sat in his throat, along with the coffee.

………………………………………………………………………

End Chapter 7


	8. There's Got to be a Morning After

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 8: There's Got to be a Morning After**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Charlie groaned, and his mouth closed on a large wad of cotton. It wasn't until he tried to swallow that he realized that the cotton was his tongue, and he groaned again as a surge of nausea was answered by a corresponding burst of pain in his head. He managed to open an eye, and took in the dim room around him, then closed it again. Wait a minute, where in the hell was he? He opened both eyes this time, and took in the strange bedroom with growing confusion. Soft light came from an attached bathroom and illuminated the sleek German digital clock by the bedside. Twelve-thirty p.m. he read, and it took another minute to register that in spite of the darkness in the room, it was p.m., not a.m. – it was the middle of the day, it was dark, and he had no idea where he was. He flung back the down comforter and discovered, to his chagrin, that he was wearing nothing but boxers. He'd just woken up half-clothed in a strange bedroom after apparently drinking himself unconscious. Not good.

He pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, and looked around the room. Morrison – he still must be at the mogul's estate, he realized. The last thing he remembered was drinking wine in the tasting room…

"Aw, damn it," he muttered anxiously, suddenly throwing the blankets aside and fighting to get his legs over the side of the bed, as he remembered his date with Amita. He struggled to his feet, the room rolled, and he rolled with it, swaying badly. Nausea erupted again, and he staggered for the bathroom, which was fortunately bathed in soft light from a night light, because he wouldn't have found the light switch in time.

After emptying his gut, he staggered back out, breathing heavily, bathed in a cold sweat. Someone had told him once that good wine didn't give one a hangover, but that was obviously a myth. He'd never felt so bad in his life. He sank onto the edge of the bed until the room stopped whirling, and gingerly turned his head this way and that, until he spied a phone. He stood, weaved over, and grabbed the receiver, thanking God it was cordless, as he wobbled back to the bed and collapsed on the edge. Peering at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed.

The answering machine at Amita's apartment came on, and he hung up and tried again, this time dialing her cell phone.

"Hello?" He could hear the question in her voice, and he knew she was wondering at the strange number.

"Amita?" he croaked.

"Who is this?"

He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's Charlie." He sounded pitiful.

"Oh." He could hear the disapproval in her voice. Not good.

"Amita, I – uh -," he paused, struggling to find words that didn't sound so incriminating. "I'm sorry I missed our outing -,"

"That's okay," she said, sarcasm rolling through the words. He could hear muted conversation, and the clink of silverware. "I enjoy running around late on Friday nights picking up food for a picnic, and then getting up at seven on my day off, for nothing. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I'm sorry," he repeated miserably. "I don't know how it happened – I didn't think I was that bad, and I was on my last one so I could sober up to drive home, and I -," Wow_, this sounded awful._ "I don't remember anymore."

"Look, Charlie, I really don't want to have this conversation right now. I'm in the middle of lunch." Her voice was curt.

"Lunch?" His gut lurched again.

"Yes – with Dane. We decided to get some work done, since I suddenly ended up with a free day, and we took a break for lunch. I'll talk to you later." He heard a click; then a soft tone, and fumbled for the 'off' button, despondently.

………………………..

J.T. Morrison looked at the pale young man slumped across from him in the back seat of the limousine. "Charlie, I am so sorry. This is all my fault."

Charlie waved a hand at him, although his face remained downcast. "No, it wasn't your fault. I should have known better than to mix tequila and wine."

Morrison shook his head, and a slight grin crept to his face. "If you could see how awful you look," he said and Charlie turned his head, catching the friendly sympathy in the other man's eyes. At least one person on the planet felt sorry for him, he thought.

He smiled back, although it was faint, and rueful. "Actually, I have to thank you. I needed to blow off some steam last night, and apparently I succeeded."

Morrison threw back his head and laughed. "You've got that right." He smiled at Charlie, affectionately. "Look – I don't know if you have plans for tomorrow, but the Dodgers are at home – would you want to go? It's a four o'clock game, I have a loge, and I invited a few friends. Let me make it up to you – and no alcohol involved, unless you want it."

Charlie hesitated – he really wanted to spend time with Amita, but he had no idea whether she would be available or not on Sunday. "That sounds great, but I'm not sure – I should really talk with Amita -,"

"I understand," said Morrison agreeably. "Why don't you program my cell number into your phone, and you can call me later and let me know for sure?"

He handed Charlie his cell phone and recited the number, watching the young man's nimble fingers as he punched in the number and saved it. The limo was turning down a side street and Morrison glanced behind him, making sure that the man driving Charlie's Prius was keeping up behind them. As they pulled in front of an attractive Craftsman home, Morrison's eyes narrowed, as he picked out two men in the front yard, doing yard work. No truck in sight, so they weren't hired help. One older man and one younger man, although both appeared to be older than Charlie was. The father and the brother, no doubt. The limo came to stop along the curb, and his man pulled the Prius into the driveway, as the two men straightened. The older man looked a bit surprised and impressed, but the younger one's face was like stone, his dark eyes hard, disapproval on his face. Morrison smiled to himself. He'd apparently not only managed to anger the fiancée, he'd irritated Charlie's agent brother, also. He decided on the spot to confront them, to see if he could further his agenda.

He stepped out and fell in beside Charlie, who was pale, and still looked unsteady on his feet. "Beautiful home," he said.

Charlie glanced at him, and a slight tinge of pink actually came into the wan face. "Thank you. I grew up here. I bought it from my father."

The other two men were coming forward, and Morrison put on his most engaging smile as they stopped, facing each other on the lawn. Charlie spoke up, "J.T., this is my father, Alan Eppes, and my brother, Don. Don, Dad, Mr. Morrison."

"J.T., please." Morrison put out his hand, shaking Alan's warmly, then Don's. The father was impressed, he could tell, although he sent Charlie a stern look.

"I have to thank you for bringing my son home," Alan said. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience he may have caused."

"Oh, he caused no inconvenience, at all," said Morrison. "I was driving into L.A. today anyway, it was no problem." He clapped a friendly hand at the base of Charlie's neck, and watched the agent's eyes narrow even further. "Dr. Eppes is a breath of fresh air." He dropped his hand and winked conspiratorially. "In my profession, I get an overdose of mindless Hollywood glitz. It's nice to talk to someone intelligent."

Alan beamed at that, and the agent's face relaxed slightly, but he still looked wary. Morrison bid them good-bye, politely, reflecting that it was lucky the two brothers weren't getting along. Agent Eppes didn't look like someone he would want to cross. The bigger the chasm he could put between the brothers, the better.

As he stepped back into the limo, his thoughts turned toward the professor's girlfriend. He'd done some research on her that morning, and as the vehicle pulled down the street, he pressed the intercom button for the driver. "Take me to CalSci."

"The campus, sir?"

Morrison sat back against the seat. "None other. It's close to here."

"Yes, sir."

He really hadn't any intention other than to look at the place, but as the limo tooled through Pasadena traffic, a vague notion crept into his head. Perhaps he could invite the girlfriend to the game, also, the next day, and stage something to upset her – maybe pay off some wanna-be starlets to fawn over Charlie. The thoughts were still rolling around his head as they turned into the roads around the campus, and he ordered the driver to slow, cruising slowly along as he took in the surroundings. As they turned a corner, he spied two figures walking down the sidewalk, and realized with a start it was her – Amita.

Morrison had seen her at the restaurant and he had also spent some time researching her on the computer, so he was certain it was she. Interestingly enough, she was walking with a tall, athletic-looking blond man, and as he watched, a sudden thought occurred to Morrison.

In addition to his loge at the stadium, he kept several of the best seats reserved for those of his guests who enjoyed the authentic ballpark atmosphere, and liked to sit in the stands for at least a few innings. He hit the intercom for the driver. "Sammy, is there a file in the front seat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pull over for a minute, and take a look inside. There should be an envelope with extra tickets for the game tomorrow."

"Yes, sir, I see them."

"All right, pull up near that couple up ahead and park as close as you can. Listen carefully."

………………………

Amita was in the middle of discussing the applicability of Poisson distributions to certain data sets, when Dane's attentive eyes suddenly left her face, and looked over her shoulder. At the same time she heard footsteps, and curious, she turned to see a man in a suit approaching them. He was wearing a small cap with a bill, like a doorman or a limo driver, and behind him, sure enough, she could see a limousine pulled up to the curb, its dark tinted windows hiding any occupants.

"Excuse, me, sir, miss?" the man said, with an apologetic smile. "I'm handing out tickets to tomorrow's Dodgers home game on behalf of the Dodgers' ownership. We've had a slump in attendance lately, and the team owner is running a promotion, giving out a few free tickets." He had stopped in front of them, smiling. "Especially to attractive young people such as yourselves. He's trying to bring in college students, young people, to make the crowd look more hip on television." He held out two tickets, one in each hand. "I'd appreciate it if you would each take one, and consider going to the game."

"Oh, I don't know -," said Amita. She was smiling, but she looked uncertain.

"They're authentic – if you want to verify that, simply call the ticket office and give them the number at the bottom." The man smiled, disarmingly. "It's not like I'm asking for money for them." He glanced back at the limo. "Look, my boss is in the car, watching. Just do me a favor and take them – you can decide yourselves if you want to go later." He handed a ticket to each of them, and took off down the sidewalk, and they watched as he approached two students, waving two more tickets to flag them down.

They both looked down at their tickets at the same time, and then up at each other. "Huh," said Dane, "if I'm not mistaken, these are some really good seats. Would you want to go?"

Amita fingered her ticket. "I'm not sure," she said doubtfully. "Charlie might want to do something, since we didn't today-,"

Dane was smiling at her, but he was shaking his head. "Listen to yourself. You've done nothing but work all week, and he stood you up today. You said he wasn't feeling well – what if he isn't up for anything tomorrow, either? You owe yourself a break – and so what if he did want to do something? It's not every day you get a free ticket to a major league game. I'm sure he'd understand."

He looked at her, with the amused, knowing smile that she was beginning to have a hard time resisting. "It would be fun," she admitted.

"Great!" he enthused, taking her statement as an acceptance. "I'll plan on picking you up at two. Now, where were we?" They continued down the walk, oblivious to the keen eyes observing them from behind the dark glass of the limousine windows.

…………………………

Don sat slumped in the armchair, an absent frown on his face as he observed his brother. Charlie was dead to the world, sleeping on the living room sofa, a damp curl plastered to his pale forehead.

After Morrison had gone, Charlie had wobbled inside, but no sooner did he get through the doorway than he was stumbling for the bathroom, where he'd been violently ill, and had actually gone down on his knees as he tried to make it to the sofa. Alan, concerned, had asked Charlie to tell him what he'd had the night before, but all Charlie could remember was two margaritas and two glasses of wine, maybe three. Granted, that was a fair amount, but it had been spread over a few hours, and shouldn't have generated the reaction they were seeing now. Either Charlie was mistaken about what he'd had, or was lying. A few weeks ago, Don would have assumed mistaken. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He reflected, as he looked at the wan face, that he really didn't know his brother as well as he thought he had. No, he corrected himself – he _did_ know the old Charlie, he just didn't have a grip on this new model, yet. This Charlie was a rebel – sending emails that resulted in the revocation of his security clearance, partying with a fast crowd, drinking too much. Even his engagement to Amita spoke of a different mindset – the old Charlie hadn't seemed ready to take that step. This Charlie seemed to be willing to put everything he once had behind him, and move on. Not that Don begrudged him that. It was just that he was doing it with such frightening speed. As if he couldn't wait to get away from his past, from his days of consulting, from a life that once included his brother.

All of it was unsettling, but there was something else here, something that made Don extremely uneasy, although he couldn't put his finger on it. It was going off in the back of his mind like the flashing lights on a police cruiser, and when Morrison had been there, the feeling was that much stronger – as if the blare of a siren accompanied the lights. He couldn't imagine why – the man was an icon in the community, and certainly did seem to be genuinely impressed with Charlie. Don knew it was probably nothing more than his discomfort with being cast aside, but the troubling impression remained. Something was not right here, somewhere.

Charlie suddenly lifted a hand and batted at the air next to his face, as if shooing away an insect. His eyes flickered open, still dazed with sleep, and he muttered, "Stop touching me." He blinked, and looked crossly at Don, still trying to focus.

"I wasn't touching you," Don retorted.

"Were too," Charlie scowled. "You touched my cheek and my hair." His hand went to his head suddenly, patting it, as if looking for something that Don might have placed there.

Don looked at him as if he was certifiably insane. "Charlie, I'm sitting way over here – I haven't moved for twenty minutes. You must have been dreaming."

"Mm," Charlie grunted. His eyes closed again, but he was frowning. In moments, he was asleep again, the frown had eased, but there was still a faint line between his brows. Don tightened his lips, and shook his head. Silence settled again, thick, and somehow ominous.

…………………………..

End Chapter 8


	9. He Said, She Said

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 9: He Said, She Said**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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When Charlie awoke Sunday morning, Don was long-gone – and Charlie would have liked to spend another day lounging on the couch. He wasn't quite as nauseous as he had been the day before, but he still didn't feel "normal"; in fact, he had improved to the point where it was starting to feel like he had a regular hangover. He lay on his back in his bed and blinked blearily at the ceiling, and tried to decide if he felt even worse because of the psychological impact.

To begin with, he had some serious groveling to do with Amita. He really hadn't been up to even begging the day before, and he had let her hang up on him in a snit. He had to make it up to her, regardless of how he felt physically.

He sat up gingerly on the side of the bed and groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. With his luck, he would probably find himself all over the entertainment pages of the Sunday newspaper, and he groaned again thinking of how he'd embarrassed himself in front of J.T. Two things were relatively certain: One, he was never going to pretend to be a wine connoisseur again – he still could not believe how a few glasses of appallingly expensive wine had turned him into…whatever he was now; and Two, he would never be invited to another of J.T.'s parties, so it probably didn't matter much in the end. Charlie lived a comfortable life. Some would even call it extravagant. But he had perused the bottom row of dusty bottles in the wine cellar – one of those bottles would clean out his bank account for a year.

He felt a little better after a long, hot shower. When he exited the bathroom, a towel around his waist, the smell of something cooking wafted up the stairs. His stomach lurched in protest, and he knew he would soon add his father to the list of people he'd disappointed this weekend. Alan had obviously started breakfast, and Charlie was obviously not going to have any.

He staggered a little as he entered his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. As he groped around the top of the desk near his bed, looking for his cell phone, he saw that it was nearly 10 a.m., already. Breakfast would be long over by now; Alan must have heard Charlie stirring and decided to warm something up. Great. Things just got better and better.

Finally snagging the cell, he sank down onto the edge of the bed and depressed the '1', speed-dialing Amita. At first he thought she wasn't even going to bother to answer, but just before her voice-mail would kick in, he was greeted with a decidedly frosty, "Good morning, Charlie. How are you, today?"

He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm much better, thank-you," he lied, opening his eyes again and fixating on the small frame on the desktop that held Amita's photo. "I wanted to call and say again how sorry I am. I don't know what happened…"

She snorted. "_I_ do."

Charlie felt himself flushing with embarrassment and shook his head, and the phone with it. "Well, yeah. I mean, it seems obvious. I just don't remember having that much to drink."

Her tone was not warming up. "I believe short-term memory loss is a consequence of an alcoholic stupor, Charlie."

His shoulders slumped dejectedly. "No, you're right. You're right – and I'm not trying to make excuses, really. I was an ass, and I'm very sorry I ruined our day, yesterday. Did you at least get some work done with…with Dane?"

Amita cleared her throat. "Yes," she answered, businesslike. "It was very productive."

Charlie sighed, wondering if she would ever thaw out. "I want to make it up to you, 'Mita," he groveled sincerely. "Maybe we could spend the afternoon together? We'll do whatever you want."

Amita's tone warmed up just a tad, but a hint of regret also entered her voice. "I'm sorry, Charlie. That sounds nice, really. I'd like to…but I have…other plans."

Charlie didn't even try to hide his disappointment, even while he made an attempt at considering her needs. "Oh. Oh. I'm sure you have a lot to do preparing for your classes this week – we could make an early evening of it," he suggested. "We don't even have to go to dinner." _In fact, that would not be a problem at all_, he thought silently as he waited for her response.

A tiny bit of the former ice seemed to seep back into her voice, and she sounded almost oddly defensive. "I agreed to help…a colleague this afternoon," she stated. "It's an experiment on…on…human behavior. We'll be observing." Amita had no idea why she didn't just tell Charlie the truth; she and Dane had done nothing wrong. They had no _intention_ of doing anything wrong – they were simply using some free tickets! "Besides," she added as a lame afterthought, "you don't sound all that hot, yet. You should probably just take it easy today."

Charlie winced but forced a chuckle. "I know you're angry, sweetie," he protested, "and for good reason. But now I'm not even hot?"

Amita laughed, her previous standoffishness falling away. The low, almost-intimate sound reminded Charlie how hot _she_ was, and the tightening in his groin made him truly sorry for the first time that she was busy that afternoon. "Silly," she admonished. "Of course you're still hot. I meant that you don't sound entirely – healthy, yet."

Charlie grinned and a tiny sigh escaped him; it sounded like she might forgive, and give him another chance. "Tomorrow evening? Dinner?"

"You have a 7 o'clock class," she reminded him.

"I have a test scheduled," he assured her. "One of my T.A.'s can proctor. I can be ready after my office hours end at 4:30."

He could hear the smile in Amita's voice. "My last class dismisses at 4," she affirmed. "That's perfect timing – I'll have half-an-hour to fix my face, maybe change…"

Charlie almost growled in relief and anticipation. "Your face is perfect," he insisted. "Whatever you're wearing is perfect." He grinned. "Especially when I take it off."

Amita gasped. "Charlie Eppes! Your father could be listening!"

Charlie moaned, looking at the closed bedroom door. "That reminds me. I suppose I'll have to face him sometime."

Amita huffed a laugh and wished her lover luck. She had recovered from her anger enough to tell him that she loved him before they disconnected. She tried not to feel guilty when she said good-bye. After all, she had told Charlie the truth – kind of. Dane was a colleague, and there would be all sorts of crowd behavior to observe at the game that afternoon. Surely her observations would come in handy at some future date.

She would just have a nice, relaxing, free afternoon with Dane, when neither of them had to worry about Hoggs boson. Charlie would spend the afternoon fully recovering, and the two of them would get back onto an even keel with their dinner the next evening.

She twisted the ring on her finger absently.

Everything would be just fine.

…………………………**..**

Alan was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the sports page when Charlie finally made an appearance. Alan lowered the newspaper and waggled an eyebrow. "10:30, son."

Charlie stopped at the refrigerator for a bottle of water, then sat down opposite his father and shrugged slightly. "Might as well let me have it," he said, resigned.

Alan just smiled slightly and returned his attention to the newspaper. "I think you've been punished enough," he answered drily. "Besides, it's Amita's job to keep you in line now. I've done my time."

Charlie sipped the cool water, reveling in it. He felt almost dehydrated. "Don't worry," he retorted, lowering the bottle. "She's all over that."

Alan laughed and rattled the paper as he turned the page. "I made pancakes. Don was here earlier."

Charlie was surprised. "Been and gone, and I didn't even hear him?"

"He wanted to pour a cold pitcher of water on you," Alan confided. "I was having a hard time talking him out of it. Luckily for you, he's on call this weekend – got called to a crime scene."

"Hmphf," muttered Charlie, lifting the bottle again. "Sounds like he almost created a crime scene himself."

Alan smiled behind the paper. "Yes. Well. I know pancakes aren't your favorite, but I put the leftovers in the oven to warm."

Charlie's stomach lurched again. "Um... I think I'll just have…"

"Toast just popped up a few minutes ago," interjected Alan. He peered at his son over the top of the newspaper. "My word, Charlie – you must have drunk that man out of house and home."

Charlie stood, embarrassed, and weaved toward the toaster. "I didn't think so," he said defensively. "I remember telling him I had to stop because Amita and I were driving to Big Sur in the morning. I just don't remember much after that."

"Apparently your mother and I neglected your education after all," Alan mused. "We should have refined your palate so you could take the expensive stuff."

Charlie snorted lightly and returned to the table with a saucer of toast. "I knew it was your fault somehow," he started, but was interrupted by the vibration of the phone clipped on the waistband on his jeans. "Maybe Amita reconsidered," he said, plucking the phone from his jeans and quickly checking 'caller ID'.

He groaned as he sank back into his chair. "J.T. Morrison," he informed his father. "More consequences of bad behavior."

Alan wisely kept his tongue and let Charlie face his demons on his own. "Hello, J.T.," his youngest said a little breathlessly into the phone.

"Good Morning, Dr. Eppes!" boomed his gregarious new friend. "You're feeling better today, I hope?"

Charlie hung his head in despair. "Please. Call me Charlie. I want to apologize again for my behavior."

"Nonsense," Morrison answered. "Charlie, four of my other guests spent the night Friday; it's not unusual behavior, I assure you. I'm simply glad that you didn't somehow slip out and try to drive home. Although my valets have strict instructions not to let that happen with any of my guests, of course."

"Of course," Charlie murmured. He started playing with his toast, poking at it with one finger. "Still, I appreciate your hospitality."

"Not nearly as much as I appreciate the opportunity to converse with someone of your refined intelligence," flattered J.T. Not giving Charlie a chance to respond, he hurried on. "Have you had a chance to speak to your lovely intended? Will the two of you be busy, this afternoon?"

Charlie poked his finger all the way through his toast and stuttered into the phone. "H-huh? I mean, yes. No."

Morrison laughed. "Oh, dear. Did I contribute to the death of a few brain cells, Charlie?"

Charlie blushed furiously. Alan, watching him around the side of the newspaper, was intrigued. "Amita has plans this afternoon," Charlie explained.

J.T. tried to dance a jig and sound disappointed at the same time. "Ah, that's a shame. I was hoping she would agree to the two of you joining me at the Dodgers' game today. I would enjoy meeting her."

"I'm sure you would," Charlie enthused.

Morrison interrupted him. "But then, if Amita has plans, you must be free, correct? If you've never seen a game from a loge, Charlie, you really should. Plus, it's an anniversary season – the Dodgers' Fiftieth – so each game is really special this year. Please say you'll come. I'll send a car for you around 2:30, and the driver will drop you at the VIP entrance. Loge 101; I'll leave your name on the list."

Charlie could hardly believe his own audacity as he spoke. "J.T., I appreciate the invitation. I'll understand if it isn't possible…but since you were hoping Amita could come, maybe there would be room for my father? He loves the Dodgers. He took my brother and me to so many games when we were kids, I'd love to be able to do something like this for him."

Morrison considered, and quickly decided this could work in his favor. Both the father and the son would be ingratiated to him – and it wasn't as if he intended to ravish Charlie in full view of 56,000 Dodger fans. This outing was intended to be another nail in the coffin, so to speak, and Charlie had dropped in his lap a way to hammer the nail home harder. "That's a splendid idea," he said immediately. "Please ask Alan to join us." The crowd in the loge was always fairly generic; often boring. Sometimes, Morrison obtained one of the luxury suites, and on those occasions very few people actually watched the game. This afternoon would be completely respectable, however, and he decided to go for the trifecta. "Perhaps your brother could come as well?"

Charlie was stunned into silence for a moment. "I…uh…" Finally, he managed to string two words together. "I'll certainly ask, J.T. He's on-call today, so he may not be able to get away. At the very least, he'll need to have his own transportation, in case he's called away."

Morrison responded smoothly. "Not a problem. I can get him a space in VIP parking – I'm a rather large supporter of the Dodgers. Just call and let me know."

Charlie thanked him again and disconnected, lowering the phone to his lap and staring at Alan, whose frank interest had led to his abandonment of the newspaper. "What?" asked his father.

"We're going to the Dodgers' home game," answered Charlie, almost dreamily.

Alan frowned, glancing back at the paper. "But they've been sold out for weeks!"

Charlie's curly head bobbed up and down. "J.T. has a loge. He's sending a driver to pick us up." He thrust the cell at his father. "He said to invite Don, too."

Alan had started to smile at the mention of the loge, but now he frowned again and pushed his chair back from the table a little. "You call your own brother," he said sternly. "The two of you. Impossible. Make an effort, Charlie!"

Charlie scowled when his father stood and grabbed the paper, preparing to leave the room. "The car will be here at 2:30," he sulked, and Alan rewarded him with a giant smile.

"There will probably be snacks there," he mused. "It's a _loge_, after all. What do you think – should I take a picnic?"

Charlie shuddered and lifted the phone to his ear. "No!" he nearly shouted. "Dad, I'm sure J.T. has it all under control."

"I wonder if I still fit in my old Dodger t-shirt," Alan went on, as if he hadn't heard Charlie at all. He strode for the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. "I'm going to see if I can find it…"

Charlie shuddered again and was wondering exactly what he had done when Don answered his cell. "Charlie? Can this wait – I'm at a crime scene."

Charlie stiffened a little in his chair. "I won't keep you," he murmured. "J.T. called and asked if he could host all three of us at the Dodger home game this afternoon. He has a loge. He's sending a car for me and Dad, but I told him you're on call and need your vehicle. If you want to go, he said he can leave your name at the VIP lot."

Charlie spoke quickly, and there was a few seconds of silence while Don filtered the information. "The sold-out game? This afternoon?" he finally asked.

Charlie nodded into the cell. "Um-hmm."

More silence, this time lasting so long that Charlie got a little prickly. "Look, I know you don't like him. If you don't want to go, I'll just tell him you caught a call."

That finally eked a response out of his brother. "What? No, Charlie, don't do that! I mean, I should probably get to know him, right?"

Charlie relaxed, and grinned slightly. "So is that a _'yes'_?"

"No," said Don, confusing Charlie until he heard the rest of the sentence. "That's a _'hell, yes'_, Buddy."

……………………………

End, Chapter 9


	10. Take Me Out to the Ballgame

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 10: Take Me Out to the Ball Game**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

------------------------------------------------------

A Dodger escort actually met them at the VIP entrance and led Charlie and Alan to Loge 101. That in itself was an overwhelming experience. Alan and his sons had attended games before, but they had arrived three hours early, parked at least half-a-mile away, and stood in line at the general admission gate like everyone else. Now, they were strolling through the packed bleachers a mere half-hour before the opening pitch, living the high life. Unbelievable.

Various beverages had been available in the limo. While Alan had indulged in an imported beer not even carried at local grocery stores, Charlie had stuck with bottled water. Very expensive bottled water; he almost felt guilty drinking it.

As their escort led them through the loge level, the Eppes men snuck an occasional peek through an open door. Each loge seemed to contain a Super Bowl party. Beautiful people stood at the large, glass windows, or lounged in the comfortable seating area. Large-screen televisions were mounted on each side of the room – tuned to the field, of course, where the Dodgers were still warming up -- for those who couldn't be bothered to look out the window. A waiter carrying a tray of canapés scurried past, and Alan was glad Charlie talked him out of frying a chicken.

Loge 101 was already a hubbub of activity when the escort deposited them at the door. Slightly overwhelmed, Charlie searched the room for J.T., or someone he recognized from one of the parties. "That view is magnificent," Alan breathed, almost mesmerized, and began to walk toward the front of the loge. Charlie followed his gaze and stood in semi-shock himself. They were directly behind home plate. He could see Jumbotrons at each edge of his vision. One was displaying close-ups of the players on the field, and the other was roaming the fans in the bleachers. When he managed to lift his eyes from the field, Charlie saw that the view was indeed breathtaking. Downtown Los Angeles shimmered to the South; the green, tree-lined Elysian hills were to the North and the East. The San Gabriel Mountains could actually be seen in the far background. "Holy shit," Charlie breathed.

A familiar chuckle came from his right, and Charlie whipped his head around to find his brother. "Couldn't have said it better myself," Don observed, raising his own bottle of water in a toast. "There's some righteous-looking brew up at the bar, but I'm on-call until midnight. You think we'll be here that long?"

Charlie smiled, happy to see Don so relaxed in his company. "How long have you been here?"

Don lowered an almost-empty bottle from his mouth and watched his father at the window. "This is my second one," he answered, hefting the plastic a little. "I had no idea; I thought I was going to have to wait in line, so I came out early."

"I had no idea either," Charlie assured him. "I don't usually travel in these circles."

Don was determined to make a pleasant afternoon of it, and let that one go. He turned and smiled at his brother, indicating Alan with a tilt of the head. "He's loving this, Chuck." A shadow passed over Charlie's face and Don hurried on. "Me, too, of course. I'm just saying – I'm glad you thought to include Dad." He dared to bump Charlie lightly with his elbow. "Makes up for forgetting Father's Day!"

Charlie reddened and started searching the room again. "I did not! Amita and I gave him a card. He _asked_ us not to get him anything else – you cheated with the whole First Edition book thing!"

Don laughed. "How could I pass it up? I knew _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is one of his favorites! Hell, I wasn't even really looking for it – Robin and I found it in a little antique shop in Carmel."

"Whatever," Charlie huffed. "Have you seen J.T.?"

"I don't think he's here yet," answered Don. "That chess-playing actor is up by the bar – hasn't been more than three feet from it for half-an-hour." He moved closer to Charlie and lowered his voice. "Is the naked woman here?"

Charlie laughed and shook his head. Damn, he had missed this; this easy camaraderie with Don. It was a bittersweet moment. He wished he could feel this close to his brother all the time, not just when they were working a case together – or when Charlie fed Don's baseball fever. Surprised to find himself curious, he began to look around the room with his nude acquaintance in mind, wondering if he would recognize her with clothes on.

A waiter glided into view, offering a tray of appetizers – tiny pigs in eensy, weensy blankets. Don helped himself to several, but Charlie politely declined. The waiter moved on while Don was still jamming pigs in his mouth, revealing a rather austere-looking Martin Van Clefe approaching Charlie with an ingratiating leer on his face and a highball in his fist. "Dr. Eppes! Lovely that you could join us this afternoon!" he boomed.

Charlie flinched just a little – he was still fighting a headache. Besides that, Van Clefe just didn't appeal to him. He inched almost imperceptibly closer to Don and pasted a smile on his face. "Mr. Van Clefe…"

"Martin!" interrupted the attorney, pausing to pop a tiny corn dog into his mouth and wash it down with half the highball. "Call me Martin!"

"Of course," demurred Charlie. He grabbed Don's elbow, almost making him hurtle a pig and its blanket across the room. "This is my brother, Don. Don, Martin Van Clefe."

Van Clefe's eyes narrowed and he looked Don up and down as if he were a side of beef hanging in a meat market. He had finished his corn dog and now he thrust his empty hand toward the agent. "Pleased you could join us, Don!"

Don still had several piggies in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, and he hurriedly shoved the water in Charlie's direction. Charlie almost reluctantly let go of Don's elbow and accepted the water, and Don grasped Van Clefe's hand, shaking firmly. "The pleasure's all mine, believe me," he grinned. "I've been trying to find our host to thank him – I haven't enjoyed a game this much in years; and it hasn't even started yet!"

Martin Van Clefe roared and matched Don's grip strength with his own. "Ol' J.T. never shows up until about the third inning," he confided, finally lowering his voice a little. "Between you and me, I'm not even sure he _likes_ baseball all that much – it's all about the party for J.T.!"

Don reclaimed his hand and shoved it casually in the front pocket of his jeans. "That's sacrilege," he intoned seriously.

Van Clefe laughed again, and Charlie contributed a proud aside to the conversation. "Don used to play pro ball," he announced.

Martin's eyebrows nearly met his receding hairline. "Do tell!"

Don actually reddened a little and snuck a glance at Charlie. It had been impossible to miss the bragging tone of his little brother's voice, and Don was at once gratified and embarrassed by it. "Just the minors," he explained quickly. "I played for the Stockton Rangers."

"Class A," interjected Charlie. "He was a right-handed utility player. During Don's last season he batted 228 and had 36 RBIs!"

Don stared at Charlie in speechless wonder as Van Clefe responded. "Well, well! That's quite impressive, Don – now I know who to sit next to during the game! You no longer play?"

Don dragged his gaze away from his brother and shook his head. "At the annual picnic," he shrugged. "I'm in law enforcement now."

Van Clefe pretended to be surprised. "Extraordinary – I'm an attorney, myself!"

Don nodded politely. "Perhaps we'll meet in court someday!"

Martin chuckled. "I doubt that, my good man – I specialize in entertainment law, not criminal cases." He looked quickly at Charlie. "I've been trying to convince your brother that every best-selling author needs appropriate legal representation."

It was Charlie's turn to flush with embarrassment, and it didn't escape Don's notice. "Yeah, Chuckles here is rapidly leaving the rest of us in the dust," he teased.

Charlie stiffened and Van Clefe laughed, and then raised his glass in recognition of someone behind Don. "I've enjoyed our conversation, gentlemen – intend to find you again once the game starts. I'm afraid you must excuse me, now; one of my actual clients requires my solicitation."

"Of course," Charlie murmured.

Don extended a hand to Van Clefe again. "Nice to meet one of my brother's new friends," he said. His tone was mild, but his dark eyes flashed almost dangerously. Martin filed that information as he shook Don's hand firmly and stepped beyond the brothers Eppes to greet his client.

Don waited until he was gone and then half-turned to Charlie, dropping his voice and speaking quietly. "Is there a reason you're almost standing in my shoes?" he asked. "And what's with all the elbow-grabbing, and baseball trivia?"

Charlie took a step backwards and searched the front of the loge for his father, refusing to meet Don's eyes. "It's a baseball game," he explained, as if to a two-year-old. "I thought he'd find it interesting."

Don let a beat pass. "Don't get me wrong," he said. "I've got no problem with my little brother remembering my stats from 20 years ago…. But you need to remember that _I_ know _you_ pretty well, too. I can tell when someone makes you uncomfortable."

Charlie finally looked at him, almost guiltily. "I don't know what it is about Van Clefe," he confided. "J.T. seems to like him – he's at all the parties. He just comes across as a little…slimy, to me."

Don smiled, and it was a hard expression that did not contain much joy. "Let's go find Dad," he suggested. "And Charlie? Trust your instincts with these people, okay?" Charlie nodded silently, a little surprised, and looked dumbly at Don's outstretched hand. Don finally poked him in the arm. "Dude. Give me back my damn water."

……………………………

It was his usual _modus operandi_, so no-one was really expecting him. As Martin Van Clefe had informed Charlie and Don, J.T. Morrison ordinarily didn't appear in the loge until at least the third inning. He was much more interested in impressing his guests than he was in baseball.

This Sunday afternoon was different.

Oh, J.T. still wanted to make an impression – but only on one very special guest. He was becoming obsessed with Dr. Charles Eppes. When he had first run into the professor, accidentally, at Bastide, he truly had been just a fan of Charlie's book paying his respects. _The Attraction Equation_ had been a hot topic of conversation at several of his soirees. His last serious lover, a grip half his age named Chris, had left months before; he claimed to be disgusted by the parties. Still, he had sent J.T. a copy of the book, along with a long, tear-stained letter. Chris was sure J.T. could find true love, if only he wanted it. Morrison had laughed at the letter, balled it up and thrown it away – but the book, he kept. He appreciated the author's photo on the back cover.

He had never actually read it, himself – but he did have Charlie autograph his copy during the first party he had attended. J.T. had perused the Table of Contents, reading the chapter titles, and was able to drop strategically placed words into the conversation. Poor Dr. Eppes didn't suspect a thing.

J.T. had invited him to that first party to spice things up a bit – he grew bored, talking to and looking at the same people all the time – but Charlie had soon sparked a genuine interest on Morrison's part. The younger man was well-spoken, and witty. He could take care of himself, yet at the same time appeared so refreshingly vulnerable…even sad.

J.T. lounged near the door of the loge, unobserved, and remembered Charlie's shyness as he came out of the pool house that first night. His startled flush of embarrassment when Sangria had floated by him, bare tits to the wind. His engaging, open smile. Morrison had fallen for Dr. Eppes as quickly and as completely as he had ever fallen for anyone, and soon Charlie was on the permanent guest list. J.T. was trying to reel him in carefully, but there had already been moments he could barely contain himself.

After Ramon had poured Charlie into a bed, for instance. J.T. had stood over him for at least five minutes, had even closed his eyes as if the soft snores were an aria sung just for him. In the end, he had not been able to resist. He had touched the unconscious man's soft curls; let his fingertips trail along the stubbled jawline.

J.T. Morrison was a wealthy and powerful man. What he desired, he acquired.

And he desired Dr. Charles Edward Eppes.

……………………………

There were several sets of field glasses available for use in the loge, and Don stood next to Charlie at the far left edge of the picture window, looking through a pair. "They're changing it up," he announced, lowering the glasses. "Kuroda's coming out."

Charlie checked the Jumbotron and saw Billingsley jogging for the pitcher's mound. "But Kuroda's winning," he started.

Don snorted. "Just barely. Seriously, it's the seventh inning stretch and the Dodgers are already in the lead by eight. Let Kuroda rest his arm and give someone else some experience – that's what I'm thinking." Don offered Charlie the glasses; when his brother shook his head he laid them on the window ledge where anyone else could claim them. He brought his right hand up to rub at the back of his neck, which he twisted around towards the loge entrance. "Nice of Morrison to take Dad by the VIP lounge," he said noncommittally. "Hope they're back before the game starts up again."

This time Charlie huffed a laugh. "Yeah, it would be a shame to miss even a second of a game this close."

Don smiled and twisted his head back around. "It's a great game, Charlie. I've really enjoyed…"

Charlie suddenly interrupted him, pointing excitedly toward the window. "Don! The Jumbotron! That's Dane Rastenbaum!"

Don followed his brother's finger. "The guy Amita's been working with, since Larry left?"

Charlie nodded vigorously. "Right." He crowded the window a little, as if to see better. "He's looking at somebody next to him," he crowed. "Dane's got a girlfriend!"

Don smiled indulgently. "Now, Charlie," he teased mildly. "It could be a guy."

Charlie seemed to consider that for a moment. "I think I see long, dark hair," he stated, "although that doesn't really help anymore."

Don snickered. "You should talk, O 'Remove-All-Barbers-From-My-Sight'!"

Charlie smiled and the camera began to pan out from Dane, revealing the faces of those sitting near him. By now, the man on his left was pointing excitedly into the camera, having discovered that they were on the Jumbotron. The woman on Dane's left – and it was definitely a woman – had her head buried in his sleeve, supposedly too embarrassed to look. "Hope this isn't a first date," Don remarked. "His girl doesn't seem all that happy."

Charlie took a step back from the window, bumping into Don and almost tripping over their feet. Don put out a hand to push Charlie away when the woman lifted her head from Dane's arm. She was laughing, clearly having the time of her life. She seemed to laugh even harder when Dr. Rastenbaum raised their clasped hands toward the camera in a sort of victory wave. "Oh, my God," Charlie whispered, so quietly that Don nearly didn't hear him.

When the words finally reached his ears, he still wasn't sure if Charlie had said them – or if _he_ had. His mouth gaped open and his hand rested lightly on Charlie's back, and he stared stupidly at the Jumbotron screen. Just before the camera swung to a different section of the bleachers, Don watched Dane Rastenbaum lean down slightly, and kiss Amita Ramanujan on the cheek.

End, Chapter 10


	11. You Never Know Who Might Be Listening

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 11: You Never Know Who Might be Listening**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

………………………..

Don managed to get a grip on himself, and shut his gaping mouth to look at Charlie. His brother was dead white and was leaning forward slightly as if he'd just been punched in the gut, and Don kept a hand on him, sliding it from his back to rest on his upper arm – it looked as though Charlie was ready to keel over. The camera, mercifully, had flitted away like a butterfly in a field of flowers, looking for new beautiful people upon which to rest.

"Charlie?" Don managed, and looked around uncertainly for Alan, wondering if his father had seen the screen. From all appearances, Alan hadn't; he was just entering the room holding an oversized foam finger, amiably chatting away with a woman, about his age, in the corner. Don did a double-take – that woman was a famous actress, and his jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. He wrenched his attention back to Charlie as his brother spoke.

"I asked her if she wanted to do something today," Charlie was saying despondently, his eyes directed out the window. "She said she was busy." His shoulders were slumped, and his gaze was fixed on a single spot. Don searched the spot with his own eyes, and realized that Charlie had managed to find the couple – they were seated just below them, behind home plate. As he looked, he saw Dane and Amita's heads come together, almost touching. Charlie's voice turned bitter. "She said she was going to help a colleague with an experiment on human behavior."

"Charlie," said Don, in a cautionary tone. "You don't know what's going on here."

"Damn right, I don't," muttered Charlie. The hurt was still in his eyes, but there were the beginnings of anger there, also.

"What I'm trying to tell you is that you shouldn't jump to conclusions," urged Don. "There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. You did stand her up yesterday."

It was like touching a match to tinder; the smoldering anger in Charlie's eyes flared. "Oh, so that gives her license to go out and flirt and kiss other men? She's my fiancée, for God's sake."

"She didn't kiss him, Charlie, he kissed her, and the camera didn't stay on them long enough to get her reaction. For all you know, she smacked him for it – or at least told him politely to back off."

"Not likely," retorted Charlie, "considering the fact that it looks like they're glued together at the head right now." He shot Don a reproachful glance. "Why in the hell are you sticking up for her, anyway?"

Don was beginning to get impatient; Charlie was arguing with him as if it was his fault, somehow, and his words came out sharper than he intended. "Because you've been acting like an ass lately, Charlie. Did you ever consider some of this might be your doing? You've got a good thing with her – I just didn't want you throw it away."

"Oh," Charlie rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Now I'm getting the lecture on relationships – as if you have any business giving it."

That last jab hurt, and set off a flash of anger of Don's own. His phone was vibrating, and he pulled it impatiently out of his pocket and snapped it open. "Yeah. When?" There was a pause; then he said, "Okay, I'm heading out now. It'll take me about twenty to get there." He looked at Charlie, who had turned to stare out of the window, brooding, hurt, and anger still on his face. "I gotta go, Charlie."

Don had to admit, in spite of all the arguing lately, and the sting, still smarting, from Charlie's last comment, he felt sorry for him. Charlie, however, had been acting out of character; maybe he needed a jolt like this to bring him back in line – maybe this would be the wake-up call he needed. Charlie didn't respond, and Don shook his head in mingled regret and irritation, and turned on his heel. What had looked like a great afternoon had just turned sour, the outing ruined by what they'd just seen, and now, he had to go deal with the aftermath of a drug-related shooting. He had half a mind to tell his father what had happened, but then decided it would be better if Charlie did that, himself. Instead, Don simply stopped to tell Alan he was going, and with a last glance at the forlorn figure at the window, strode out of the room.

…………………………..

J.T. Morrison stood in the far corner, surrounded by a group of fawning young actors, and enjoyed the show. He had purposely called the producer of the televised game, and suggested that he train his cameras on certain seats behind home plate. The producer owed him a favor, and he was more than happy to get a shot of the photogenic young couple. Morrison had stood back and watched as the shot had come up on the Jumbotron, watched the couple's faces fill the screen, watched the shock and the hurt appear on Charlie's face. It was almost too much to bear; Morrison lived on the pain of others, and to see the object of his desire already hurting…he'd had to look away for a moment, to quell the arousal he felt.

When he looked back, he could see Charlie speaking with his brother, and from the expressions on their faces and the impatient way the agent turned on his heel, Morrison could tell they were arguing. He watched as Don stopped and spoke to his father, and then gave him a friendly wave as Don headed for the door. The agent gave him a nod of thanks, but didn't stop; J.T. was surrounded by people and impossible to access. His eyes wandered back to the dejected figure at the window; this had gone better than he'd hoped. Not only had he created a rift with Charlie's intended, he also had apparently sparked an argument with the brother.

He excused himself, not noticing or caring that he cut off a young woman in mid-sentence, and she faltered, staring at him as he pushed his way through the group. Leeches, all of them – they all wanted his fame, his connections to boost them into stardom. He shook them off impatiently, like a retriever shaking off water, and moved next to Charlie at the window.

"Great view, isn't it?" God, that hair. He imagined his fist closing on it, and jerked his mind away. "Are you having a good time?"

Charlie looked up at him, trying to compose his features. "I – yes, it's a wonderful game – great to see it like this – up here -," he gestured vaguely at the interior of the loge.

Morrison eyed him sympathetically. "But -," he prompted.

Charlie flushed. "Am I that easy to read?" he laughed, deprecatingly, but it sounded hollow. "I'm sorry, I guess I just don't feel that well, still." As he spoke, his gaze wandered again down to the couple in the seats below.

"That's too bad," Morrison murmured. "The game is almost over. If your father is ready, I can have my driver take you home."

Charlie's gaze flickered back over his shoulder to Alan. His father was shaking hands – actually, it was more of a squeeze than a shake – with – Charlie's eyes widened, as the notable actress dimpled at his father, then turned and walked away. "Oh, my God," he said, "was that - ?"

Morrison smiled. "Susan Dawes? Why yes – it appeared she and your father were getting along wonderfully. They chatted all through the eighth inning." He turned his smile on Alan, as the senior Eppes approached them, a satisfied and dreamy smile on his face. "Mr. Eppes – may I call you Alan?"

"Of course, of course," Alan responded heartily. "I have to tell you, I haven't had this much fun in ages."

"I'm afraid Charlie isn't feeling well," interjected J.T., as Alan started to continue, and watched as Charlie's face filled with guilt.

"I'm okay, really," Charlie protested, but Alan was looking at him with concern.

"You do look a little tired," he said, and then turned to J.T. "You know he was really sick yesterday – beyond what one would expect from a few drinks." He looked back at Charlie. "I wonder if you don't have a touch of the flu. Maybe we should be going."

"I'll call for my driver," murmured Morrison. He held out his hand, and gave Alan's a shake, then offered it to Charlie. As Charlie took it and Morrison looked into the big dark eyes, he could feel the shock wave of pleasure traveling straight up his arm. He wanted nothing more than for Charlie to stay, to go home with him, but that was yet just a dream. He had much more to do before he could make that happen; he would just need to be satisfied with today's progress. Still, he couldn't resist placing a second hand on top of Charlie's and holding it in both of his, as Alan stepped away toward the door. "Whatever is bothering you," Morrison murmured in a quiet voice, "you have a friend in me. If you ever need to talk, just call."

Charlie was looking at him with a slightly startled but grateful expression. "Thank you," he said, as he drew his hand away. He flushed a little, and stammered earnestly, "I want to tell you, I really appreciate your friendship."

Morrison beamed, and threw a casual arm over the young man's shoulders as they walked toward the door. "My pleasure, Charlie, believe me."

………………………….

Charlie closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest in the limo, only half-listening to his father's excited prattle. "I have to tell you Charlie, that Susan Dawes is so down-to-earth, such a nice person to talk to. You get the impression that so many of the Hollywood crowd are flaky or self-centered, but she's very real. She's involved in many charities, you know…," The words went on, but Charlie lost them, they floated through the vehicle, landing on deaf ears.

Now that his initial rush of anger had subsided, he felt as though his heart was in a vise. He could still see Amita lifting her head from Dane's shoulder, her laughter, the teasing gleam in her eyes. Even Dane's kiss didn't have as much impact as that vision, because the camera had swooped away before Charlie could see her reaction. That look on her face, though, just before the kiss, drove a dagger right through him.

Back at the Craftsman, he escaped into the garage. Alan had headed for the kitchen to prepare a light supper of soup, and although Charlie didn't feel like eating, he let his father go, just to get some privacy. He didn't feel like discussing this with Alan – it was bad enough that his brother had insinuated it was his fault.

What on earth was going on here? he asked himself. Just a few short weeks ago, he'd asked her to marry him and she'd happily accepted. What had changed? How could she do this? The more he paced, the more worked up he became. She owed him an answer. He knew he'd screwed up this weekend by standing her up, but he didn't deserve this. He stopped in the middle of his pacing, and then made purposefully for the garage door. Yes, she owed him an answer, and by God, he was going to get one.

He strode through the kitchen on the way to the living room, where his keys sat. Alan saw him come through, and followed him through the kitchen door, frowning as he saw Charlie pick up his keys. "Charlie, where are you going? I thought you weren't feeling well."

"I'm not," snapped Charlie. "I just have to run to campus. I'll be right back." He bolted out the front door, leaving his father standing there, with a bewildered expression.

He tried her apartment first, but her car wasn't there, so he headed for CalSci. Sure enough, her vehicle was in the lot; and without hesitation, Charlie made straight for her office. The campus was quiet on a Sunday night, and as he headed through the hallways, they echoed, each doorway he passed, dark. It was good thing – they would want some privacy for this conversation.

He paused as he got to her doorway, trying to collect himself at least a little; then pushed through the door, allowing it to remain open as he stepped forward. She was seated at her desk, and her head came up in surprise. "Charlie! What are you doing here?" Did she sound defensive, or was he reading that into her voice?

He just looked at her, and for a moment, the anger dissolved, and he felt as if his heart was going to break. She was so beautiful and intelligent – everything he'd ever wanted.

She was staring at him now. "Charlie, what is it?"

He took a deep breath. He'd give her a chance to come clean, he decided – he'd let her bring it up. "I missed you. I drove past your apartment, but you weren't there, so I drove here, and saw your car. I just wanted to tell you in person how sorry I was for yesterday morning."

She reddened and looked down at her desk. "Charlie, forget it, it's over." She looked back up at him. "Is that the only reason you came here?"

He swallowed and shrugged. "I – yeah. How was your day, anyway?" He looked at her, his eyes locked on hers. '_Tell me,'_ he pleaded silently. '_Tell me the truth. Please make this right – I can forgive you if you just tell me the truth…_'

Her mouth opened; then closed. "I, uh, I told you, I was helping a colleague with a project." She stared at him with confusion, tinged with suspicion, as his head dropped, dejectedly.

Charlie felt a surge of despair, and on the heels of it, anger. His jaw hardened and he looked up. "Tell me," he said, his voice tight with emotion, "about the project. What colleague?"

She flushed, and her words came out defensively. "Charlie, what is this?"

"That's what I'd like to know," he said heatedly.

Her eyes flashed with irritation. "Are you interrogating me?"

"Why do you ask?" Charlie's words dripped with sarcasm. "Do I need to be? Why don't you let me answer the question? Your project, apparently, was counting baseballs at Dodger stadium while you drooled over Dane Rastenbaum."

Her face went blank with surprise, and her eyes darted nervously to the door, as she rose. "Charlie, I can explain -,"

"I tried to give you that opportunity," he snapped, "but you whiffed on it. Care to take another swing?"

"Charlie, now is not the time for this -," she began, looking again at the door.

"For what? What is _'this?'_?" Charlie's voice rose, in disbelief. "There's a good time to talk about the fact that the woman I'm engaged to is seeing another man?"

"I'm not seeing another man," snapped Amita, anger returning to her face. "Yes, I went to a ballgame with Dane – the tickets were free. I worked all weekend, and I needed a break, so I told him I'd go. God knows, I couldn't count on you for an outing."

"Oh, you said that was over, but it's not, is it - you're still upset over that. Look, I told you I was sorry, I called myself an ass, I _groveled,_ for Pete's sake, but that wasn't enough? You had to make me pay for it by going out with someone else?"

Her jaw tightened. "I've had enough of the accusations, Charlie. I think we should talk about this later, when you've calmed down."

"Don't stop on my account – this is pretty entertaining." The words, spoken in a familiar voice, came from behind Charlie, and he whirled to find Dane Rastenbaum lounging against the doorframe, an amused smile on his face. "I don't mean to interrupt, but the lady was probably right when she said you should discuss this elsewhere – you never know who might be listening." He held up a takeout bag, lazily. "I brought dinner. Care to join us, professor?"

Charlie had frozen, his gut clenching as he realized that Rastenbaum had been standing there, listening, but the realization that the two of them had planned to eat dinner together suddenly deflated him. He could feel the fight leave him, as he looked at Amita. "Amita," he said, then stopped and looked down, at a loss for words. Realizing how pathetic he must look, he pulled himself together with a huge effort, and straightened. He looked at her again, not with anger this time, but with pain in his face, and said quietly, and he hoped, with some fragment of dignity, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to interrupt your evening."

"Charlie-," he heard the plea in Amita's voice behind him as he turned, but he ignored her, and walked past Dane Rastenbaum, and out the door.

…………………………

End Chapter 11


	12. MakeUp Sex

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 12: Make-Up Sex**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

…………………….

The Curriculum Committee, upon which Dr. Mildred Finch had convinced Amita to serve, met every Monday morning. A continental breakfast was presented in a conference room in the computer sciences building at 6 a.m.; Amita's first class was in that same building at eight.

Charlie generally didn't arrive on campus until eight on Mondays. He held an open office hour, and was presiding over _Mathematical Logic and Axiomatic Set Theory_ by the time Amita returned to her office for her own morning office hours. During Charlie's lunch hour, Amita was in a rooftop observatory perched on top of the astronomy building, trying to convey her love of _Basic Astronomy_ to a group of hungry freshmen. By the time Amita was ready to grab her own midday meal, Charlie was in a small lecture hall conducting an upper-class-level _Seminar in Number Theory_.

Most Mondays, the two didn't see each other at all. They had each taken to dropping by the other's office, and leaving discreet messages, scribbled expressions crammed into the corner of a white board. So far, not even Millie had figured out their code – or even that one existed. There were no surprises waiting for Amita today, though, no matter how often she returned to her office. Neither did she allow herself the option of trekking to Charlie's office, and leaving one for him. She fluctuated between despair and anger all day, and was tired, and cranky. When her last class of the afternoon – this one in a physics lab – dismissed at four, she hung around for several minutes talking to students and checking experiments, loathe to return to the mathematics building…or go home to her quiet apartment…or kill some time grocery shopping…or anything else she could think of.

After the last student left, Amita sat for a while at the desk, putting her book bag into order and trying to think of a viable alternative. She was shocked when she heard the familiar clearing of a throat, glanced up quickly and saw Charlie standing in the doorway of the classroom, directly below a clock that read '4:30'. She stood quickly, knocking her neatly arranged books onto the floor, twisting her engagement ring around her finger. "Charlie! I…didn't expect to see you…"

He attempted a smile, failing miserably, and stood rooted to the spot. "I believe we had dinner plans?"

Amita knelt and started picking up books, not looking at him. "I wasn't sure you still wanted to go."

Charlie's hand was suddenly on top of hers as he knelt beside her and helped gather supplies. "I think we should," he said quietly. He touched her ring lightly and then raised his face to hers. "You're my fiancé. There will probably be many more…misunderstandings…in our future. But I still want us to have that future." He suddenly looked terrified, and swallowed thickly. "Don't you?"

Amita blinked back tears and nodded her head vigorously. 'Oh, yes," she breathed, feeling hope for the first time since the evening before. She leaned a little closer to Charlie and spoke earnestly. "I wish you could believe me. Nothing happened – a peck on the cheek. After you left last night, Dane and I agreed to keep more stringent physical boundaries, from now on."

Charlie snorted, and leaned back on his haunches. "Don't put yourselves out on my account," he responded bitterly.

Amita pulled back as well, and flinched as if slapped. "It_ is_ on your account, Charlie," she said hotly. "You're the one behaving like a jealous fool over nothing. Can you honestly tell me you would have been upset by this if the man involved had been Larry?"

"Wrong set of data," he answered immediately. "Larry has been my best friend for years – I hardly know Rastenbaum. Larry is involved in a relationship of his own, with a very beautiful woman – I don't even know Rastenbaum well enough to know if he has a partner." He looked away and used one hand to push himself off the floor, bringing a book with him and dropping it loudly on the corner of the desk. "Furthermore, if you were going to a baseball game with Larry, I don't think you would lie to me about it."

Amita waited for him to offer her a hand. When he didn't, she rose easily to her feet on her own. Her dark eyes flashed as she began shoving her retrieved objects haphazardly into the book bag. "I was angry," she announced in a clipped voice. "Somebody from the Dodgers stopped and offered us free tickets when we were walking to the faculty parking lot on Saturday afternoon. I was still hurt that you'd stood me up, I'll admit that."

"You seemed to get over it when we talked yesterday morning," he pointed out.

She deflated a little. "I did. Then, I didn't know how to fix it – it wasn't fair to call Dane: '_Hey, you know that free ticket you got yesterday? How about giving that up? You see, I just made up with my boyfriend, and I'd rather go with him.'_"

Despite the situation, Charlie had to fight off a smile. "You could have told me the truth," he insisted. "I mean, come on, Amita – _'observing human behavior'_?"

She had the decency to blush. "We did," she countered weakly. "I didn't think you'd understand, and it wasn't worth getting you all upset. It was one afternoon!"

Charlie blinked his big brown eyes and looked at her with such vulnerability and pain that she felt heat between her legs and found herself blushing again. "_I_ told _you_ the truth," he said quietly. "Do you think it was easy, to admit I got so drunk I had to stay overnight at J.T.'s, and was too sick to function for almost two days?"

And that was the sentence that settled it. Amita knew that he was right – about almost everything. They would be married for 40 years or longer; they would raise a family together – there would be other disagreements. What mattered was how they handled those bumps in the road. Lying to each other, whether by omission or commission, was guaranteed strife; or worse, a recipe for divorce. All residual anger and resentment drained from her system and she dropped the book bag on the floor, oblivious to its spilling its contents yet again, and quickly closed the distance between them. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, placing her hands on his face and leaning in to kiss him squarely on the mouth. She withdrew, breathing heavily. "You're right, I handled it very badly. Please forgive me, Charlie."

Charlie was breathing a little heavily himself. The taste of her, denied him for three long days, lingered on his lips and they sought hers again. "It's all rrr...," he mumbled, losing the sentence in her open mouth.

She snaked one hand behind his neck and pulled him closer to her, pushing as much of her body as she could against him. Soon she felt him hardening against her. She broke off the kiss again, and leaned her head on his chest, letting both hands fall until they wrapped around his hips. "Dinner?" She couldn't seem to manage a full sentence.

Charlie fairly growled as one hand rested on her ass, and the other kneaded at a breast through her sheer top. "Make-up sex," he suggested instead. "I hear it's remarkable."

She giggled and forced herself to pull away a few centimeters. "Time to gather some data," she agreed.

……………………………

They were rarely sober.

Each morning they were injected, unwilling participants in a macabre experiment. Months of practice had brought their captors certain information: How much heroin was _just enough_? How pure should the drug be, to insure the best possible outcome? There were many demands made of the product. It should keep them pliable, easily manageable, for most of the day – until an additional injection of Rohypnol in the early evening turned them into glassy-eyed robots, their senses deadened, their minds only on what they had to do to earn their next hit of heroin. The constant state of inebriation also decreased their appetite for previously important things: food; family; plumbing; privacy. The slaves needed to be content with whatever they were fed, whenever it came. They needed to stop asking about mothers, fathers, siblings – even children – immediately. They needed to begin to find a 5-gallon bucket of piss and feces completely acceptable. It was imperative that they parade compliantly, _en masse_, into the communal shower each Saturday evening, and allow the rough, strange hands to scrub away the filth of a week.

They would be led, like trusting children, into the abyss. When their usefulness began to wane, they would be discarded. There were many available to take their places. Men and women who begged to be brought into America, the Land of the Free. Other men and women who had discovered that America was really the Land of the Rich, and were begging on its streets. Abused and wounded children, who ran from their pasts into a future that could not bear contemplation.

As long as he was careful, there would always be enough to meet the law of supply and demand. His supply would perform, and the bored, moral-less rich would demand. They would come to him, as they always had, offering money for the sin he could give them – the drugs, the sexual fantasies. They gave up their darkest desires every Saturday evening at his latest _Fantasy_, and not one of them knew his name - he was known to them only as Mr. X. Only a mere handful of mortals were allowed to call him anything else; they knew him as Markus – no surname, simply Markus. He would have it no other way.

………………………

J.T. loved his weekends; no question about it. Perhaps _because_ of the weekends, which were filled with an overload of people, sex, alcohol, and drugs – sometimes all at once – he also treasured his solitary Mondays. He even gave most of the staff the day off, fending for himself in the kitchen. He would don a pair of shades and a wide-brimmed hat to disguise himself from the world and drive one of the cars himself, if the need arose. Only Ramon stayed at the house, acting as J.T.'s pool boy, his bodyguard, his butler, his medic…whatever Morrison desired of him. Sometimes, what J.T. desired was not to see Ramon at all, but it wasn't difficult for the two men to avoid each other at the palatial estate.

Today, J.T. had allowed Ramon to make his presence known. Morrison was feeling flush with success, and generous. Therefore, it was Ramon who led the visitor out to J.T.'s poolside retreat in the late afternoon. "Mr. Morrison, sir," his dark paramour-turned-employee informed him, "A guest."

J.T. lifted his head slightly and smiled in recognition. "Ah. Please, join me. Would you like Ramon to fix you a drink?"

His guest shook his head as he pulled out a chair to sit opposite J.T. at the small, glass-topped table. "Thank-you, no. I'm not staying long."

J.T. dismissed Ramon without a glance. "Leave us." He waited until he heard a sliding glass door leading to the main house open and close before he spoke again. "A pleasure to see you, Markus – as always."

Markus pushed something across the surface of the table. "I've just had my people print up the passes for the pick-up point this weekend. The pick-up location is moving Saturday night."

J.T. regarded the card stock tickets with interest, but did not reach out to accept the passes, surprising his guest a little. "I have a new friend," he began. "I would like to bring him to the main event; but I am not sure he is ready for the _Fantasy_ rooms. He needs to be brought along slowly."

His companion frowned. "One must be on the guest list for admission even to the legit segment of the evening – you know that. I'm not sure my staff will have time to investigate someone new before Saturday."

J.T. frowned in return. "He has been attending my Friday evening soirees for several weeks." He smiled, slowly and suggestively. "Last weekend he enjoyed himself so much, he spent the night in one of my guest rooms."

His visitor laughed. "Not the master suite, J.T.?"

Morrison tilted his head. "Not yet. I told you. This one is special. Slow and steady. I was rather hoping our first time would be in a private room at _Fantasy_."

A brief smile. "Flattery, you old fool? J.T., you're besotted! I'm not sure I appreciate that. You generally find the _stud du jour_ at a _Fantasy_ affair; I don't believe you've ever wanted to bring in someone from the outside, before. Wherever did you find this one?" Sudden suspicion darkened his features. "Do I have competition?"

Morrison laughed heartily. "Of course not, my friend! If things go as I intend, I will buy some of your product to enhance our journey together, don't fret!" He leaned forward and lowered his voice, speaking conspiratorially. "He's completely legit. I met him at Bastide – turns out he's a best-selling author, and some kind of teacher, somewhere." He leaned back in his chair and mused thoughtfully. "I should pay more attention to things like that. It might make a good movie someday."

Markus sighed and shook his head. "For you, my friend, I will expedite the investigation. I'll need his name."

"I can do better than that," J.T. promised smugly. "His book is on my bedside table – a simply delicious photo on the dust cover!"

His visitor arched an eyebrow. "Did you read it? Are you going to option it?"

J.T. shook his head. "Not that sort of book," he answered, "so that would be a 'no' – on both counts. I do enjoy waking up to that face every morning, though!" He began to pout. "Perhaps I shouldn't allow you to borrow the book after all."

A row of even white teeth showed as Markus threw back his head and laughed again. "I'll take a picture with my cell phone," he suggested, gathering himself to stand tall beside the table, "and jot down his name on a slip of paper." J.T. didn't move, and the visitor chuckled again. "Don't bother yourself, Morrison – Ramon still knows the way, I'm sure."

………………….…

End, Chapter 12


	13. The Poison Cousins

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 13: The Poison Cousins**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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They lay in post-coital repose, naked and sweaty. The sheets were in a tangled heap on the floor, so they air-dried as they recovered from Round #2, during which Amita had the upper hand. Charlie was flat on his back, almost asleep, when Amita spoke.

She had collapsed onto Charlie's chest and eventually rolled off onto her side afterwards. Now, she was raised on one elbow tracing circles around one of his nipples. "If you want," she said softly, almost shyly – which was quite a feat, considering her position at the moment – "I'll stop working with Dane."

Charlie grunted in automatic response and let her words swim around his cloudy head for a moment. When he actually understood the offer, he forced his eyes open and shifted until he was lying on his side, facing Amita. "I've never been much of a liar," he answered, brushing at the fine hairs at her temple. "I can't pretend I don't find that idea attractive." Before Amita could respond, Charlie hurried on. "But I don't want that, 'Mita. You say there's nothing going on – I trust you. This research is important, and I know it means a lot to you. I won't ask you to give it up out of some petty, childish jealousy."

She smiled brilliantly and kissed him quickly – entirely too quickly, in Charlie's opinion. "Thank-you, Charlie," she said, disentangling their lips long enough to form words. "Higgs boson _is_ important to me." Her tone became wistful. "I wish that I was still working with Larry on it. I mean, I know we exchange e-mails, and Dane and I will work with him this weekend…but it's just not the same, you know?"

Charlie chuckled, his hand by now twisting in the dark hair at the back of her head. "It's true that there is nothing that quite compares to research with Dr. Larry Fleinhardt."

Amita grinned and playfully twisted Charlie's nipple. "You could come with us," she tempted. "Columbus Day is a holiday for you, too!"

"Ow!" Charlie protested, putting his hand over hers. "Too much of a good thing there, okay?" He explained over her low laugh. "I'd love to see Larry – that's one reason I don't think I should go. You know how he and I can get, when we're together. He needs to be able to devote his time to you, and…Dane, and the research. I'll fly out to see him some other time; or maybe we can talk them both into coming here for Thanksgiving!"

"Good idea," Amita agreed right away. "I'll start working on him and Megan this weekend, and then you and Alan can start bombarding them with an e-mail campaign next week!"

Charlie rolled his eyes and was about to laugh when the sharp trill of Amita's cell caused him to groan instead. "Speaking of Dad, he's probably calling you because I turned my cell off," he groused.

Amita smiled and climbed over him to snag the cell off the bedside table. This left one pendulous breast hanging virtually in his mouth, so Charlie did what comes naturally at such a time. Amita gasped and bit back a moan as she checked the caller I.D. on her cell. Loathe to remove her breast from its current home, she settled instead on top of Charlie, who had rolled onto his back again. She bit her lip and then flipped open the phone. "Don," she greeted a little breathlessly.

Charlie immediately expelled her breast from his mouth and tried to sit up, looking wildly over her shoulder as if he expected to find his brother standing over them. Amita yelped and flew off the edge of the bed, landing with a _thump_ on the floor, narrowly missing hitting her head on the nightstand.

"Amita?" Don asked, after pausing briefly. "Are you all right?"

Amita glared up at Charlie and threw one of the tangled sheets at him. "I'm fine," she assured Don. "You just…woke me up, that's all."

Don began to apologize profusely. "Damn, Amita, I'm sorry. It's only a little after 8, I didn't think it was too late to call…"

Amita twisted around so that her back was to Charlie and she could lean against the bed. "It's not, Don, really. I haven't gone to bed, I must have just…dozed off, or something…Are you looking for Charlie?"

There was another brief pause. "Uh…no," Don finally admitted. "David and I just came back from a crime scene – it looks like a home invasion. Father murdered; Mom and teenage daughter raped and beaten –the two of them are critical, and may die as well."

Amita shuddered. "That's horrible."

"Right," Don agreed. "We found something fishy on the guy's PC – our tech says it's a pretty sophisticated encryption; overkill for the average person who just uses his computer for a little online banking."

Amita began to see the light. "You want me to come down and take a look at it," she guessed.

She could hear the relief in Don's voice. "It could probably wait until morning."

She was already up, bringing her hastily discarded bra with her. "No, tonight's good. I have an early class tomorrow, and I want to at least come in and see what we're dealing with. Maybe get some decryption programs working on it."

"Thanks, Amita. I really appreciate this."

She smiled, spying her blouse near the bedroom door and walking toward it. "Not a problem, Don. I'll see you soon." Amita disconnected, bent over to pick up the blouse and turned. Charlie was sitting up on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks. She frowned slightly, confused. "What are you doing?"

Charlie looked up and winked, then smiled. "I'll give you a ride; Don needs help, right?"

For the first time that day, she suddenly felt naked; exposed. "Charlie," she demurred, "you don't have to do that. It's a hard drive, and they've already taken it to the lab – you won't even be able to get in, there. In fact, at this hour you won't even be able to get a Visitor's Pass in the lobby."

Charlie hesitated. "Don can call down and leave my name," he started.

Amita crossed to the end of the bed, stopping at the top dresser drawer to grab a clean pair of underwear. She tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned over to pull on the lace thong. "You know he won't do that," she said as she straightened. "He didn't call you; he knows you have no clearance. He called me."

Charlie bristled, lowering his foot to the floor without putting the sock on. He looked ridiculous sitting there naked, but for one foot, and Amita couldn't help smiling as she reached around her back to secure her bra into place. Charlie misunderstood the expression. "Great. So now _you're_ laughing at me, too!"

The smile slid off Amita's face. "No, Charlie, I'm not. And neither is Don – he just doesn't understand why you threw it all away." Charlie's mouth dropped open and he looked as shocked as if she had slapped him. She sighed as she pulled her blouse over her head. "Charlie," she said, as soon as her head popped out of the neck hole, "_I'm_ not saying you did anything wrong, or that you 'threw' anything away. I just wish you and Don could try to see things from each other's perspectives."

"He's just going to do the same thing to you," Charlie warned. "Don calls, and you jump out of bed with me to suit up and run down there at 8 o'clock at night! Before you were his Great White Hope, how often did Don call you just to say 'Hello', or to invite us on a double-date with him and Robin? All Don cares about is what you can do for him."

Amita finally gave up on finding her skirt and walked to the closet to withdraw another. "Charlie, that's not fair," she reprimanded lightly. "Wouldn't you be hurt if Don did something that meant he would never be able to come to see you at CalSci?"

"Like he ever does," Charlie muttered, throwing himself onto his back and staring at the ceiling. "You see him there a lot? Especially now that he can't bring work to my office and interrupt my day with something that is ALWAYS more important?"

Fully clothed now, Amita perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss Charlie good-bye. "You're the one who applied for reinstatement of your clearance. Just try to be the bigger man," she advised when she pulled away. Charlie rolled over onto his side and she placed a hand on his naked hip. "You did what you did because it was the right thing to do. That's one thing I love about you, Charlie. Give your brother some time to adjust; a little understanding – it's the right thing to do."

Charlie sulked into the pillow. "I'm a bigger man than Don," he said, as he watched Amita rise from the bed and prepare to exit the bedroom. "Just remember that, Wench."

…………………….

Charlie didn't want to know how long Don kept Amita at the office – and he didn't want to place her in the awkward position of not being able to tell him anything, if she ever came home – so about 30 minutes after she left, he headed home. It was after 9 p.m. when he arrived, and the only light was in the solarium. He found his father sitting at the desk, studying blueprints. "Hey, Dad."

Alan looked up, startled. "Charlie! I'm sorry, I didn't even hear…is it time for dinner?"

Charlie shook his head and grinned. "Usually you're the one reminding me not to forget my meals."

Alan smiled and leaned back in his chair. He slapped a hand on his midriff for emphasis. "I can well afford to miss a few meals, my son. _You_ are not quite so well insulated, on the other hand."

Charlie leaned against the doorframe and yawned. "It's after 9; Amita and I had a date. What's so fascinating?"

Alan waggled an eyebrow and then leaned back over the desk. "Must be a school night, if your date ended so early. Stan sent over some plans for me to see. He's bidding another waterfront project – this one's out in Carmel, and he's already lost a few bids out there. He wants to go in thoroughly prepared."

Charlie wandered over to the desk and stood over it, looking down at the plans. "When's the meeting? Don took her."

Alan glanced up, confused. "What?"

Charlie poked at the plans. "I asked when the meeting is."

Alan sat back again and studied his youngest. "Don took Amita?"

Charlie shrugged. "We were at her place, and he called with some all-consuming F.B.I. need."

Alan clasped his hands together and tented his index fingers under his chin. "I don't recall this level of sarcasm when your brother's 'all-consuming F.B.I. needs' involved you, Charlie. You lost your clearance all by yourself, with your eyes wide open. It's hardly fair to blame Don – or Amita – for it now."

Charlie made a huff of displeasure but did not reply. Alan tipped forward again and tapped the plans. "The meeting is on Friday, but I'd like to have these back to him by Wednesday at the latest."

"Are you going with him?"

Alan sighed. "I was thinking about it. An all-expenses-paid jaunt to Carmel? Then your cousin called from San Diego."

Charlie looked nonplussed for a moment. Most of his cousins were a great deal older than he and Don, and had lived out of the area for quite some time – if not his entire life – and he was having trouble remembering who lived in San Diego. "Danny?" he finally guessed.

Alan rolled his eyes. "Danny is Morty's son, in Jersey. San Diego is where your mother's Aunt Irene moved several years ago, to be closer to her grandchildren?"

Charlie smiled as it all came rushing back to him. "Oh, that's right. The Poison Cousins."

Alan moved his hand to hide the smile on his face. "Oh, how Irene hated it when you and Don called them that. Poor Sam. And Ella." A snort of laughter escaped him.

Charlie's smile widened. "I seem to recall that Aunt Irene was never that fond of you, either."

Alan nodded and agreed. "Always said your mother could have done better."

"So what's up with Salmonella?"

"Stop that." Alan shook his head. "Just Ella phoned. You know that Aunt Irene has been living in a retirement complex down there. Some fancy continuous care community, so that if she needs assisted living or even more help later, she won't have to move again." Charlie nodded, and Alan continued. "Seems the old dear has met a widower on the third floor and wants to get married. This weekend."

Charlie's eyes widened. "She didn't invite you to the wedding, surely?"

Alan smiled. "Not much chance of that. Your cousins are inviting me to come down Thursday or Friday, and talk her out of it. They're convinced he's a gold-digger."

"Of what gold, exactly?" asked Charlie. "Does her pension even cover the retirement village?"

"Just barely," agreed Alan. "I told them the last thing that would help was for me to talk to Irene about her money, but Ella still begged me to at least come down and meet the man."

Charlie started laughing, and Alan interrupted. "I must admit, I'm curious. You know Stan has a project going in San Diego right now as well, and I was just there not four months ago to check on its progress. I stopped by to visit Irene then, and there was no mention of this man. She introduced me to her Bridge club and hurried me out the door so she wouldn't be late for lunch – didn't want to lose her table." He spoke a little louder, to be heard over Charlie's snickers. "I figured I could tell her I was back to check on the municipal building – maybe tell her you're engaged?"

Charlie suddenly stopped laughing. "It'll be a long engagement, Dad. Let's wait a while, okay? At least with Irene. You can tell Salmonella, I guess."

"Didn't I tell you to stop calling your cousins that?"

"Right." Charlie yawned again. "I have to log on to my lap top and see if my T.A. e-mailed me about any disasters during my last class – then I'm turning in. I'm still tired."

Alan frowned. "You must have had a touch of the flu – a hangover would never affect you for this long."

"Maybe," Charlie agreed. "I feel okay now, though – just tired, and I have an early class. So you're going?"

"Yes," Alan answered. "I will check on the project for Stan, as long as I'm there, so I intend to go down on Thursday. I should only be gone for a few days."

Charlie nodded. "Well, give my best to Aunt Irene. Not to mention…"

"I know, I know," sighed Alan, bending over the plans again. "Salmonella."

…………………….

End, Chapter 13


	14. The Invitation

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 14: The Invitation**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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The call ruined a perfectly good Monday night football game. Jack Timmons had kicked back with a six-pack at his apartment, ordered a pizza, and was enjoying one hell of a game between the Chargers and the Ravens when his cell phone vibrated. He scowled in annoyance and picked the phone up, his heart lurching when he saw the display bring up simply "X." The man known to most as "Mr. X," was not a person to cross, and Jack, unfortunately, had done just that, many years ago, getting in over his head on some gambling debts, and finding himself in the unenviable position of owing money to a man who had a reputation of not suffering failure to pay. He spent two weeks in fear for his life, but then Mr. X had approached him with an offer – he would dismiss the debt if Jack would work for him when the situation warranted. Obviously, Jack's position as an FBI agent was more valuable to the man than the money itself.

It seemed like a great deal at the time, but in retrospect, Jack found that he had in essence signed his soul to the devil. Over the past five years, Mr. X had called on him only occasionally, usually to have him muddy up an investigation that was getting a little too close for comfort. Each time, however, was unbearable. Jack sweated out every assignment, mortally afraid that someone at the Bureau would figure out what he was doing, that he was involved in a cover-up. Each time, Jack hoped that Mr. X would consider the debt paid, and that he wouldn't get another call. No such luck. The devil was back.

He swallowed the lump of pizza that had suddenly stuck in his throat, hit the mute button for the television, and answered. "Timmons."

"Jack, how are you?" The deep voice on the other end resonated with friendliness, but Jack knew better than to think it was genuine.

"Okay. What can I do for you?" He tried hard to sound casual, and lifted his beer to his lips.

"This is a relatively easy one," X replied. "I want you to check out a man named Charles Eppes."

The swallow of beer stalled midway through his throat, and Jack sputtered and coughed. _Charles Eppes? As in the brother of his SAC, Don Eppes?_ "Yeah?" he managed to croak. "What for?"

Markus continued smoothly, ignoring the gurgles on the other end. "I'm simply trying to determine his suitability as a guest to one of my parties. Word is; he worked for his brother Don Eppes, who is your boss, as I recall. The information I have is that Charlie lost his security clearance a while back, and no longer consults. I want to verify that."

Jack was starting to breathe a little easier now. This might be an easy one. "It's true. He's not allowed to work cases anymore."

"What about his relationship with his brother? Are they close? How much do they communicate?"

Jack scratched his head. "I don't really know. It's hard to tell about after hours, but I haven't seen Charlie at the office in weeks."

There was a brief pause, and then X said, "All right, here's what I want you to do. First, keep an ear open for any talk at the office about Charlie. Number two; keep an eye out for him. If he shows up there, I want to know about it, and I want you to find out what he's there for. I'll put someone else on to keep tabs on him after hours, but the office is your responsibility. I repeat, if he shows, I want to know, and I want to know why - immediately."

"You got it," Jack said heartily, feeling relieved. As jobs went, this one would be relatively easy.

As he hung up the phone, he took a reflective sip of his beer. Even though he'd never been to it, he was well aware of _Fantasy,_ X's roving party. More than once he'd steered investigators away from leads that might possibly have led them to one of _Fantas_y's multiple locations, when they were getting close. He'd never have pegged Charlie Eppes for being the type to attend that party, or any party for that matter, but the old adage was probably true; you had to watch the quiet ones. After all, the professor _had_ put himself on the wrong side of the law, and had gotten his clearance revoked. Still, he had a hard time reconciling the images – the youthful, eager face that came to mind when he thought of Charlie just didn't jive with the rumors he heard of _Fantasy_ – the designer drugs, the glitzy band of 'entertainers,' that catered to every whim of X's wealthy guests. Apparently, the professor wasn't as innocent as he appeared. He shook his head, and took another swig of beer, as he punched up the sound on the game. Charlie Eppes. Huh.

………………………………………………………………………….

Tuesday evening, Charlie hit the remote button for the TV, balancing the laptop on his lap, and sighed. His father was doing laundry in preparation for his trip to San Diego on Thursday, and Amita was working late at the FBI offices, with Don. Prior to losing his clearance, Charlie rarely watched television unless Don was around, and even when he did, more often that not, he was doing something else at the same time – his mind was too active to simply sit there and wait for the images and sounds from the tube to hit it. He had to multitask, or risk going out of his mind with boredom. Especially tonight, when he was facing the prospect of television alone, without Don or even his father for conversation, he felt the need to divert his attention. So as he surfed channels with the remote with one hand, he booted up his laptop with the other. Maybe he could get a lesson plan done while he watched – what? Nothing in the channel guide looked even remotely interesting.

Oh, there was other work he could be doing; research work out in the garage, but he just didn't have the drive for it tonight. At least that was what he told himself. He didn't want to admit to himself that he was, in reality, verging on something akin to depression. The loss of his clearance, the widening gap in his relationship with Don, the drunken binge – even his fight with Amita, although it had thankfully been resolved, had all battered his self-confidence, his very sense of self. Research work took focus, energy, concentration, and at the moment, he had none of those.

He felt his cell phone ring, and he fumbled in his pocket with an eagerness that he secretly found pathetic. Maybe it was Don or Amita – maybe they had hit an impasse. If Amita phrased the problem in terms that were general enough, he could give them some guidance, without really knowing what the case concerned. He paused as he managed to get the phone in front of him, and saw the number. It wasn't Don, or Amita – it was J.T. For a moment, he had the inclination not to answer it – he would never admit it to Don, but after the last party at Morrison's estate and his demoralizing episode of inebriation, he was secretly beginning to think his brother was right – J.T.'s crowd was far too fast for him. Still, the man himself seemed all right, and he had been very kind, and the last outing had been a relatively mundane baseball game, and face it, he was desperately bored…He hit answer, and pretended he hadn't seen the caller. "Charlie Eppes."

On the other end, J.T. Morrison's gut clenched. He was in deep, he knew – he felt a flash of arousal at the mere sound of the young man's voice. He'd been in withdrawal since Sunday, pining for the sight of him, for the sound of him. His smooth voice, however, betrayed none of that. "Charlie – how are you? It's J.T."

"Good, J.T. How are you?"

"Great," J.T. responded. "I was calling to extend an invitation to you. A small group of us is going to drive up the coast tomorrow evening for dinner, and a lovely little outdoor symphony. It will be a relatively early evening – I know you have to teach in the morning." He stopped, letting the invitation dangle invitingly. His real intent was to lure the young man to _Fantasy_ on Saturday, but he knew he couldn't wait that long to see him. He also was well aware that he needed to avoid appearing too loose – he could tell instinctively that Charlie was somewhat uncomfortable with the party scene. The baseball game, a sedate dinner, and a symphony with friends – both outings were intended to convey respectability, to set the young man at ease. J.T. was well aware that he was much more persuasive in person – if he could offer the _Fantasy_ invitation face-to-face, he would have a much better chance of getting Charlie to go.

Charlie hesitated. He had told himself that he was swearing off J.T.'s parties, at least for a while, but this wasn't a party. This was an evening out with a small group of people who were obviously more interested in culture than carousing. What could be more innocuous than dinner and the symphony? The fact was; he was so mired in ennui that he was developing a lesson plan that he didn't even need – for a class he wasn't even teaching that term, in front of the television, no less. "Yes, count me in," he said. "That sounds great."

"Marvelous," J.T. enthused. "I'll pick you up at five – dinner's at six-thirty, and we'll have a little over an hour drive to get there. The symphony starts at seven-thirty – you should be home by eleven-thirty."

"Let me know how much I owe you for the ticket."

J.T. laughed. "Oh, my dear boy, nothing at all. I rarely pay for these events myself – being a Hollywood producer does have its perks, you know. I'll see you tomorrow."

Charlie let out a breath, and snapped the phone shut. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so sorry for himself, the week ahead seemed a little less depressing. So what if his brother and his fiancée were spending their free time immersed in a case without him? So what if his father was leaving Thursday; and he'd be alone in the house? He had things to do, too, dinners to attend, symphonies to see, intelligent, cultured people with which to converse. People who were interested in him, who valued him as a person. He flipped the television off, clicked his laptop shut, and rose, heading for the garage. Suddenly, he had found enough energy to tackle something a little more challenging. His global warming studies perhaps; or some Cognitive Emergence…

……………………………………………………………………..

Amita stopped in Charlie's office late Wednesday afternoon, just as he was packing up, and poked her head in the doorway. "Leaving early today?"

Charlie glanced up and took in her smile, but didn't miss the raised eyebrow, the look of concern in her eye. She had mentioned at lunch that she was working with Don at the FBI offices that night again, and he'd seen the same expression of apprehension on her face then. For some reason, it both warmed and irritated him – he knew she was concerned about him, and had been since he'd lost his clearance, but he didn't want anyone's pity. He didn't _need_ anyone's pity – and it wasn't as if he were going home to an evening alone.

"I need to be home and get changed by five," he said. "I'm going to dinner and the symphony."

Her eyes widened. "Really. You didn't say anything earlier."

Charlie shrugged. Truthfully, he was reluctant to bring up the topic; he knew Amita didn't approve of Morrison. After his lecture on being honest the other day, though, he knew he needed to tell her. "You told me you were working with Don again after school – I didn't think you'd mind. I'm going out to dinner and the symphony tonight – with Morrison and a group of people."

He saw the expression of distaste on her face, but all she said was, "The symphony – really? Since when were you into that?"

He grinned, disarmingly, trying to charm her. "You're always telling me a little culture won't kill me, right?" He sobered a little and shrugged apologetically. "Look, I know how you feel about him, but it's just dinner and a symphony."

Her mouth twisted. "And all you can drink in the limo, I imagine."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, her expression changed to one of chagrin, and Charlie suspected she regretted the words. By then, though, it was too late, because he'd retorted sharply, "Contrary to popular opinion, I do have some willpower. You don't have to worry; I fully intend to control my alcohol intake."

She sighed, trying to look contrite, but a bit of exasperation still clung to her words. "I just don't see why you have to hang around with that crowd."

Charlie picked up his briefcase and moved to the door, jingling his keys, and she stepped back, allowing him to close his door and lock it. He gave her a quick kiss, but his smile was tight, and she knew he was still angry. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll be home and in bed by 11:30, which is probably better than you'll manage tonight."

She smiled tentatively back at him, trying to tender a belated peace offering, but it was left floating in the air between them, as he turned and strode off down the hall.

………………………………………………………………………….

Charlie's mind drifted back to the conversation two hours later as the Hummer limousine sped up the coastline, and he frowned. Morrison had left his usual limo at home, opting for the Hummer to seat the group of ten, so they could all ride in one vehicle. J.T. kept apologizing for the 'squeeze;' no one was uncomfortable, but all the seats were occupied and everyone was sitting side-by-side. Charlie had found himself next to Morrison, and facing a leggy beauty in a miniskirt named Mirah, who apparently considered undergarments optional – not exactly what Charlie would have thought of as appropriate attire for the symphony, but then, it had been years since he'd been to one. Maybe the dress code had relaxed in the interim. He had spent the ride with his eyes firmly planted on the faces of the guests, or wandering out the window – anything to keep from looking down at Mirah's legs. As his gaze found the coastline and the view out a side window, he found his mind wandering to Amita, and her earlier comments. Even though, deep down, he agreed that he didn't belong with the party-happy crowd, her censure irritated him. She was starting to sound just like Don, he thought to himself grumpily, and just like Don, made him want to do precisely the opposite.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

Charlie blinked and turned to look at J.T., who was studying him with an air of dismay. "What? Oh, no, I'm sorry – my mind was on something else. This is great," Charlie assured him. He shook himself mentally – why was he stewing over what Amita and his brother thought? He should be enjoying himself.

J.T. reached across to one of his guests seated near the limo bar, and took a glass of wine that the man had just poured; then handed it to Charlie. "I know you said you didn't want any, but one won't hurt you," he said. "You look much too tense. Relax, you'll enjoy the evening more."

Charlie hesitated; then aware of the eyes on him, took the glass with a shrug. He didn't want to embarrass his host – and one wouldn't hurt.

One glass turned into two at dinner – a person could hardly appreciate the seven-course meal while overlooking the stunning view of the Pacific without a glass of wine, but Charlie held it at two through the rest of dinner, even though the rest of the group went through several bottles. After the meal, the group gathered on a viewing deck at the restaurant to watch the sunset, and Charlie mentally congratulated himself for fending off the numerous offers for refills, while still managing to appear sociable. See, he_ could_ manage himself in this atmosphere, he told an imaginary Don and Amita, with a sense of vindication.

J.T. drifted up next to him, and murmured, "I have a surprise, but I didn't want to mention it front of the other guests – some of them are included, but not all of them. I managed to get some tickets to an exclusive show Saturday night – it features live Vegas-style entertainment. It's private, and by invitation only, and those invitations are extremely hard to come by. There was one extra ticket, and I picked up it up for you – I was hoping you'd consider attending."

Charlie glanced at him uncertainly, his vow to stay away from J.T.'s parties warring uncomfortably with his current, slightly rebellious state of mind. Of course, he wasn't even sure that J.T.'s event would classify as a party – it sounded like a show. Still, it was a Saturday night, and he could already imagine the look of disapproval on Amita's face when she heard he'd be out with Morrison's crowd on a weekend. '_She doesn't have to know_,' he told himself. '_She's leaving this weekend to go work on Higg's boson with Dane and Larry._ _She can hardly expect me to sit home by myself, twiddling my thumbs_. _Plus, J.T. already bought the ticket._' In the end, it was J.T.'s expression that swayed him – the man looked at him so hopefully that Charlie didn't have the heart to say no. After everything J.T. had done, it would be rude, and Charlie had to admit, it felt nice to be included.

"Yeah, sure," he said easily. "Amita will be out of town – I'm free this weekend."

A huge smile broke over J.T.'s face, and he clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed. "You won't be disappointed – it's quite a show, tremendous, really. If you'll excuse me, I need to call for the limo; we'll be late for the symphony if we don't get moving."

He moved off smoothly and Charlie watched him go, marveling at the way the man held his liquor – J.T.'s stride was smooth and steady. Of course, the man was taller than Charlie was, and quite muscular; he probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He turned back for one last glimpse of the sunset, and Mirah, the woman in the miniskirt, moved up to the railing beside him. "I couldn't help but overhear," she purred with a smile, keeping her voice low. "You're going with us to _Fantasy _on Saturday, then?"

Charlie raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Is that what it's called?'

"Yes," she said, looking a little alarmed at his louder tone, and quickly glanced around her. "You need to keep it quiet," she said. "Not everyone's invited." She eyed him knowingly, and her sly smile returned. "It's amazing – acrobatics, vocal acts, anything you can imagine - you're going to love it. It's extremely hard to get in – J.T. apparently went to bat for you. He must really think a lot of you."

Charlie flushed a little, and smiled modestly. "He's been very kind. I can't imagine why."

Her eyes drifted over him, and her knowing look deepened. "Oh, I can," she murmured, and sashayed away, a weaving a little on her four inch heels, as her escort came up and offered her an arm. Charlie was forced to walk behind them, wondering at her last comment, and the pair of magnificent legs and the barely decent skirt floated in front of him. All the way back to the limo, he kept his eyes firmly three inches above her head.

………………………………………………………………………….

The symphony was surprisingly enjoyable, and Charlie got back to the Craftsman at 11:25, just as J.T. had promised. The silence in the house indicated that Alan was in bed, but Charlie wasn't tired yet. The wine had worn off long ago, and he decided to call Amita, just to prove that he was home, and sober. She answered on the second ring. "Hi – Charlie?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm home – where are you?"

"Still at the FBI offices," she sighed. "I think it's going to be a late one." There was a pause; then she asked, in a contrite tone, "How was the symphony?"

"Very nice," he replied. "Eine Kleine Nacht Musik," Pachelbel's Canon in D major – and dinner was tremendous – Cici's, overlooking the ocean. You and I will have to go there sometime."

She sighed. "It sounds wonderful. I'm sorry I was picking at you this afternoon - I just worry about that crowd. I'm glad you got home okay."

Charlie had been intending to rub it in a bit, but her apology made his smugness vanish, leaving a warm feeling in its place. "It's nice that you worry," he said gently, "but you don't have to. Trust me; I learned my lesson. Don't work too late, okay?"

They exchanged 'good-nights,' and Charlie hung up the phone with a sigh of mingled relief and satisfaction. He'd been wondering whether to tell her about his invitation for Saturday; and tonight made that decision much easier; she'd have a hard time begrudging him an opportunity to go to a show, especially when she wasn't going to be in town herself. What was that Mirah had called it? _Fantasy_?

He glanced at the clock. It was late, but curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he decided to boot up his laptop for a quick search. The search engine turned up a myriad of entries for '_Fantasy_,' many of them obviously not for family viewing, and he refined his search to L.A., then tried some different variations, using the words 'show,' 'party,' 'exclusive,' and finally 'acrobatics.' For all of them, the same subset of entries kept popping up; they looked like sensational gossip columns and tags for urban legends, but when he could find nothing else, he started to open them. "Exclusive L.A. party for Hollywood jet-setters," said one. "Top secret soiree," proclaimed another.

All of them speculated that the party offered more than just performing artists; that everything from drugs to gambling to sex was offered at the events, which changed locations weekly, from one secret spot to another. At first, Charlie rolled his eyes at the articles, thinking to himself that even if they _were_ describing the same party, the writers were running amok with the rumors, just to get hits on their pieces. The more he read, however, the more uncomfortable he felt. Some of the darker rumors mentioned designer drugs and sex slaves, and by the time Charlie was done, he had a gnawing sense of apprehension that followed him into bed, and prevented sleep.

After tossing and turning for three hours, he finally made a decision – as much as he hated to, he would bring this to Don in the morning. Don should be able to tell him whether the stories were legitimate or not – whether or not _Fantasy_ really was something illegal. With that decided, he finally dropped off into a restless slumber.

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End Chapter 14


	15. Hook, Line and Sinker

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 15: Hook, Line, and Sinker**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

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Don took a gulp of hot coffee, and closed his eyes gratefully as the caffeine hit his brain. At thirty-seven, four hours of sleep just weren't enough anymore. He opened his eyes, and stared at the files on the conference room table with a sigh. Amita had made a lot of progress last evening. She was smart, to be sure, and she was now close to having results, but Don couldn't help but compare her to Charlie. Amita's work, and Larry's, before he left, was solid, steady, reliable. No fireworks, no miracles, but they managed to come up with a solution, given enough time. Charlie on the other hand, was a whirlwind, a tsunami – not only were his solutions quick and brilliant, he brought the force of his personality with them – an eagerness, an intensity, a drive that the others lacked. Don was lacking some of that drive himself, these days; he couldn't quite put his finger on why, exactly, but somehow, he'd been feeling jaded, doubtful, when it came to his chosen profession. He was beginning to realize that he had not only relied on his brother's solutions, he'd relied on his spirit and enthusiasm to shore up his own flagging sense of conviction in his work, in the Bureau. He missed Charlie; work just plain sucked without him, and Don could feel a familiar sense of loss and anger reappearing, as he wondered for the thousandth time what had possessed his brother to send that email to Pakistan.

His thoughts were interrupted by Colby, who appeared in the doorway. "Don, Charlie's on the phone."

"Okay," sighed Don. "Transfer it in here."

Colby shook his head. "He's downstairs – says he wants to ask you something, privately."

Don looked at him as if for an explanation, but Colby just shrugged and headed back for his desk, so Don punched in the number for security, and told them to issue a visitor's badge. He sat there tapping a pencil, waiting until Charlie appeared, and watched as the familiar figure strode across the bullpen, with his slightly geeky, eager stride. Just like old times.

As Charlie appeared in the doorway, he held up a sack. "I brought breakfast," he said. "Bagels."

He plopped down in the seat across from Don, opened the bag, took out a bagel, and then shoved the bag across to Don. "Thanks," murmured Don, watching as Charlie began working his bagel with his hands, restlessly tearing it into chunks. "What's on your mind?"

Charlie glanced up at him, then down at the bagel pieces, a slight worry line between his brows; then finally he sighed, and looked up again. "I need your opinion," he said. "I got invited to a - a show – on Saturday, and I want to know if you've heard of it."

Don had just taken a big bite of bagel, and he spoke through it, his cheek bulging. "Charlie, I'm the last person you should come to for a show review."

Charlie glanced out through the glass windows of the conference room, and then turned back to Don, shaking his head impatiently. "No – I mean, well – have you ever heard of an exclusive show called _Fantasy_?"

Don frowned. "LAPD has been investigating a bunch of – events – in the LA area," he said. "Anything from dog fights to illegal gambling. The name kind of rings a bell, but it's nothing we've ever been asked to look into here." He frowned. "What's this, another Morrison bash?"

Charlie stiffened defensively. "No – it's not one of his parties." His eyes skittered away evasively. "A woman was talking about it last night after dinner."

Don eyed him, his face expressionless. "Amita said you went out with the Morrison crowd again last night."

"It was just dinner and the symphony," retorted Charlie, his eyes daring an argument. "I was home – sober, mind you – by 11:30."

Don held up a hand as if to fend him off, and took another bite of bagel. "I didn't say anything. Did you hear me say anything?"

"Sorry," Charlie mumbled, his scowl fading at bit, as he poked at a chunk of his bagel, sending sesame seeds hopping across the table. "Amita was giving me a hard time about it yesterday; I guess I'm just defensive. Anyway, concerning _Fantasy_, I suppose if you haven't heard anything specific, maybe it's not a big deal – maybe they're just rumors."

Don's frowned deepened. "What are just rumors?"

Charlie rose, shrugging again. "Just stories about drugs, and sex – it's probably just the rumor mill." He looked out at the bullpen with a sigh, and Don could see the wistfulness in his face. Charlie turned back to him. "Anyway, thanks – I've got to get to school."

"I'll ask around," said Don, not quite ready for him to go yet, but Charlie just nodded, and loped out the door. "Thanks for breakfast," Don called after him.

He sat there for a moment, reflectively chewing his bagel. Why would Charlie care about that particular party, unless it was something associated with Morrison? He imagined that for Charlie, asking that question was tantamount to possibly admitting he'd been wrong about Morrison, and Don knew that Charlie had to be truly bothered to take that step, especially when the admission had to be made to his older brother – an older brother who would delight in saying, 'I told you so.'

He picked up the phone, and started to dial Wright's number, as Colby reappeared in the doorway, curiosity in his eyes. "What was that about?"

"Oh, Charlie just had a question," said Don cryptically, setting the receiver back in its cradle.

"Oh," said Colby, sounding a bit disappointed. "David and I were wondering if he was telling you he was getting his clearance reinstated."

Don shook his head, staring. "What gave you that idea?"

Colby shrugged. "I don't know, wishful thinking, I guess. Amita told us yesterday that he applied for a reinstatement a few days ago."

"He did?" Don's jaw dropped, and it was Colby's turn to stare.

"He didn't tell you?"

Don shook his head, slowly. The news brought with it a feeling of betrayal, and then a bit of anger, but it quickly subsided as he considered that he hadn't exactly been good at promoting conversation lately, himself. Arguments, maybe, but not conversation. Colby looked slightly embarrassed and was turning to go, but Don stopped him. "Wait – I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a something called _Fantasy_? I think it's a party."

"Yeah," said Colby. "I've got a buddy in the DEA who's working on it. In fact, he said both the NSA and the DEA are collaborating on the investigation – why, are they pulling us in on it, too?"

Don stared at him. "Not yet," he murmured. "So what is it, anyway?"

Colby grimaced and shook his head. "Nasty stuff, man. The rumors are that it's a rotating party. Some say it's just legitimate entertainment, singers, acrobats – like in Vegas. Others say that for a price, a person can get anything from designer drugs to sex – and that the prostitutes aren't all willing – or of age. Sexual slavery – that sort of thing."

Don could feel his gut tightening, but he kept his face neutral. Was Charlie actually associating with people that went to this thing? "Okay. Thanks."

He waited until Colby's broad shoulders were halfway across the bullpen, and dialed Assistant Director Wright.

At the same time, across the bullpen, Jack Timmons rose and stretched, and headed for the elevator to the parking garage, to call in a report.

………………………………………………………

J.T. Morrison had just finished a conference call with a group of executives from Universal Studios, and had hit the call end button, when his phone rang. He glanced at the number, and his brows rose in anticipation as he lifted the receiver. No speakerphone for this conversation. "My friend," he exclaimed. He rarely used Markus' name, even in his own home, alone in his own study. One couldn't be too careful. "I'm assuming you have good news?"

Markus' voice came over the line, the tone decidedly perturbed. "Your potential guest made a visit to his brother this morning, at the FBI offices."

J.T.'s smile faded, but he mustered bravado. "What on earth is wrong with that? The man is his brother. Was he there for a meeting?"

"No." Markus' tone turned begrudging. "He apparently just stopped for a few minutes and dropped off some bagels. My man said they talked for just a few minutes – he could see them in the conference room but couldn't hear what they were saying. The bottom line, though, J.T., is that your prize is the brother of an FBI agent. However, because he's been to some of your parties, because I have found that it is true that he has lost his clearance with the FBI, and simply because it is you asking, I am going to grant him access – but to the outer room, and the show only. He will get a bronze pass – no silver or gold – no access to drugs or the back rooms until I am more sure of him."

J.T.'s expression turned petulant. "And what fun is that?"

"You were the one who said you had to take it slowly," retorted Markus. "I hold you personally responsible for him, J.T. Be at the pick-up location in time for him to be processed – I intend to look over him very carefully – and be thankful that I'm letting him come at all."

The phone clicked, and there was silence. J.T. set the receiver down slowly, and sighed. Truly, the situation was becoming untenable; he couldn't wait much longer. The sensation of the young man's leg against his in the limo the evening before had nearly sent him over the edge. He had to have him, and he would. He would own him in every way, before this was over.

…………………………………………………………………..

"Hey, you busy?"

Charlie looked up in surprise, to see Don's head in his doorway. A bag from a local deli appeared beneath it, and then the head and the bag were followed by his brother's body as Don pushed his way into the room. "I thought I'd return the favor – I brought lunch."

Don's dark eyes swept swiftly around the room, as if looking for something, and then his expression sobered, and he shut the door behind him. Charlie looked at him curiously. "It's a nice surprise – thanks. I realized after I got out of there this morning I hadn't managed to eat much of my bagel."

Don pulled a chair up next to the desk. "You didn't eat any of it." His eyes caught Charlie's, and his gaze turned more direct. "Get any phone calls this morning?"

Puzzlement washed over Charlie's face. "No, why?"

Don hitched his chair a little closer, and spoke in a low voice. "I asked around about _Fantasy_, and I apparently pushed some buttons. Wright sent me over here. He said a couple of guys from the DEA or NSA, or maybe both, were on their way over here to see you. I guess they've been investigating the party, and they want to ask you some questions."

He pulled out a sandwich and tossed it at Charlie, then took out one for himself. Charlie blinked at it. "I really don't know what to tell them. All the woman said was that it was amazing, and it had acrobats and singers. It's not as if I've attended it, or anything."

A knock sounded at the door before Don could reply, and then it swung open a bit, revealing two young men in hooded sweatshirts and ball caps. "Professor Eppes?" said one of them, and Charlie frowned a bit. He didn't recognize either of them. In fact, on further examination, they didn't look quite young enough to be students.

Don had caught his look and rose to his feet, his hand sliding under his jacket, and Charlie saw the movement and stood also, his eyes wide. The men slid quickly into the room and shut the door, and one of them said, "Relax agent," as he flipped out a DEA ID. The other man produced an NSA badge as they moved toward the desk. "Agents Cooke and Leach," the first one, presumably Cooke, said. "Wright should have told you we were coming."

At Wright's name, Don finally relaxed, and he took his hand off his Glock and pulled his chair aside just a bit so the men could also drag chairs closer to the desk. "We hear you have some information on _Fantasy_, professor."

Charlie had finally found his voice, and he sank back into his chair. "I don't really know much about it," he said. "I was out with some people last night, and it was mentioned. I'd never heard of it, and looked it up out of curiosity, and it didn't appear exactly – kosher. So I asked Don about it this morning, to see if he knew anything."

"We've been following that case for months now," said the NSA agent, the one named Leach. "_Fantasy_ is a rotating party – it changes location from week to week around the L.A. area. The rumors are that there is a main party room with live entertainment and drinks – nothing illegal, if the establishment had a liquor license. However, the rumors say also that there are illegal drugs, gambling, and prostitution on site– that for a price, a person can access the back rooms and the illegal part of the event. The person or persons who run it are a mystery – and how they manage it is a mystery also. The logistics alone would be hard to imagine – every week, the props and sets have to be taken down and moved, and set up in a place that is big enough to hold the event. They need workers to do that – how they keep the hired help from spilling the secrets – much less the guests, is beyond us, but they have. We had one or two people who we thought had connections, and seemed to be willing to talk, but they disappeared before they could tell us anything. We've gotten nothing concrete in the months we've worked this. Anything you can give us would be appreciated. Now where were you, and who were you talking to, when those comments were made?"

Charlie looked at Don, hesitating, and Don could see distress in his eyes. It made his own gut tighten a bit, but he spoke, reassuringly. "Charlie, it's okay. You said a woman said something about it at dinner, right?"

"Yeah," replied Charlie softly, uncertainly. He cleared his throat. "I was out with a group of people for dinner at Cici's and then for an outdoor symphony afterward."

Cooke had pulled a small notepad out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and had begun to write. "Was this an organized event?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. Just some friends. Actually, I didn't really know any of them except the person who invited me."

Cooke looked up. "And that was-?"

Charlie looked at Don again, and Don knew he was having difficulty with this; he undoubtedly felt guilty about giving Morrison's name. The thought generated both a feeling of vindication and a twinge of impatience. Don had obviously been right to warn him of the man, but Charlie still didn't see it – his urge was to defend the slime-ball. The fact frustrated Don, and made him more than a little jealous. He nodded curtly, giving Charlie a wordless prod, and Charlie sighed. "J.T. Morrison," he said, reluctantly.

Cooke and Leach exchanged a glance that said the information had some kind of significance, but all Cooke said was, "And was Morrison the person who organized the outing last evening?"

Charlie looked miserable – no, more than miserable – a little frightened, Don thought, as his brother answered. "Yes."

"And how do you know him?"

"We met a few weeks ago at a restaurant. He invited me to a couple of his parties -,"

Leach's eyes widened. "You've been to his parties?"

Charlie frowned at him, and his reply came out sounding a little snappish and defensive. "I just said that."

Cooke waved Leach off. "Go on."

"He invited me, my father, and Don to a Dodgers game last weekend." Don felt the other men's eyes on him, but he kept his gaze on Charlie. His brother looked extremely uncomfortable – there was no doubt - something was bothering him, deeply.

"And then the outing last night," continued Charlie. "I really don't know him all that well, or why he's taken an interest in me, other than my book – I'm recently published. He has a very large, varied group of acquaintances."

"Did you see any evidence of anything illegal at his parties? Drugs, for example?"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "No – I never saw any drugs. The crowd did seem a little loose, but if they were doing drugs, they were discreet."

"Loose how?"

Charlie flushed, looked at Don, and then his gaze flitted away. "Well, his swimming pool appeared to be clothing optional. And at one party, I wandered down a hallway and saw a half-dozen people in a room, partially dressed, apparently getting ready to – well, you know." His color deepened as he saw them exchange glances, and took in the tight expression of disapproval on Don's face, and he hastened to add, "J.T. broke it up as soon as he found out about it. He sent his security man in to deal with them."

Cooke eyed him thoughtfully. "And the woman who mentioned _Fantasy_ last night was one of Morrison's guests?"

"Yes. I only know her first name, Mirah. I think she's a model."

"And what exactly did she say?"

"She seemed pretty excited about it. She called it amazing, said there were acrobats and vocal acts; said it was really hard to get an invitation." Charlie's gaze slid away, guiltily.

Leach frowned. "And what brought up the topic to begin with? Why would she bring up a secret party?"

Charlie glanced again at Don, looking extremely uneasy; then took a deep breath. "Because she'd just heard J.T. invite me to it."

"What?!"

The exclamation came from all three of the other men, and Charlie looked down, miserably, then up again. "I didn't know what it was," he added lamely.

Cooke and Leach exchanged another look, filled with meaning, and then Cooke looked at Charlie. "Do you think there's a chance that Morrison might be the organizer of _Fantasy?"_

Charlie shook his head, vehemently. "No. He said he'd gotten tickets; that they were really hard to get, but he'd gotten one for me. I think he's just attending it." His face cleared a little as a thought occurred to him. "Maybe he doesn't know what it is, either. Even Mirah, although it sounded like she'd been there before, didn't say anything about a back room. She didn't mention anything other than legitimate entertainment."

Leach snorted. "Not likely, from what we understand about Morrison. I'm sure he knows exactly what goes on there."

Charlie hazarded a glance at Don. His brother was silent, but his lips were in a tight line, and his eyes snapping dangerously. He looked back at Cooke as the agent spoke.

"Dr. Eppes, I'm not sure you realize the significance of this. We've been trying for months to get someone on the inside, and you actually have an _invitation_ to this thing. This is huge. You did accept the invitation?"

Don broke in, his voice cold. "It doesn't matter – he's not going."

Leach protested. "What do mean, he's not going? Are you kidding me? We might never get another opportunity like this. I think Dr. Eppes should speak for himself."

They looked at Charlie, who looked back at the agents, then at Don, who spoke before Charlie could. "You can't use him anyway – he lost his clearance. He'd have no credibility with a jury if you did decide to use him."

"Let's talk about that." Charlie spoke, his voice quiet, but suddenly decisive. "I applied for my clearance to be reinstated almost two weeks ago. I've gone through the requisite interviews, and they're debating my case. Tell your bosses that if I get my clearance reinstated, I'll do this – I'll attend the party and report out."

Don stared at him. "Charlie, are you nuts? Did you not hear the part about their potential witnesses disappearing?" He looked at Cooke and Leach as if daring them to contradict him. "No. His answer is absolutely not."

Cooke ignored him, looking at Charlie. "I have to admit, we've discussed your clearance issue already – we've considered the fact that if you had to testify about your conversation with the woman last evening, you'd have more credibility if you had it back. I know the guys at the top of the DEA and NSA, and the FBI, have been considering that point. Give us a few minutes, we'll make a call."

They rose, and exited the office, and Don exploded. He had gotten to his feet, and began to pace, angrily. "Charlie, that was one of the dumbest things I've ever seen you do. How do you know they weren't going to give you clearance back anyway? Now, they won't, unless you do this."

"You don't know that," Charlie retorted. "The guy who has my case has been giving me the third degree – he's questioned my colleagues here at school, Amita, Wright -,' he broke off and looked at Don. "I would have figured that he would question you."

Don frowned. He would have thought so, too, and the realization that he hadn't been contacted was disturbing. "Maybe he just hasn't gotten to me yet." He fixed Charlie with a reproving stare. "Although it would have been nice to know in advance that this was coming."

"I wasn't supposed to tell anyone in advance," Charlie mumbled. "Anyway the last time we talked, he said he wasn't quite finished yet, but the way things were looking, he wasn't going to recommend reinstatement. I've been sitting here thinking that any day now, I'm going to get a rejection."

"It doesn't matter," Don stated, firmly. "It's not worth the risk."

"It is to me," said Charlie, quietly. "I miss it – I miss the work. I want to do this again. Besides, what's the risk? I'm going with a group of people – there's safety in numbers. I'll check it out, and report out when I get back. It can't be that hard." He looked at Don, and Don could see disappointment in his eyes. "I would have thought that you wanted me -," he broke off; then shook his head. "Forget it. Obviously not."

Don knew what Charlie had been about to say – that he'd thought that Don would want him back, would want to work with him again. He did, in the worst way – but not if it meant that Charlie had to do this. If Charlie had just kept his mouth shut, he would probably have gotten his clearance reinstated, without having to risk his own safety to get it. He had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. It was just another example of his younger brother's impetuosity – his tendency to jump in with both feet – a dangerous tendency when working with the criminal element. "Maybe it's better if you don't consult," he thought, then realized suddenly, from the stricken look on Charlie's face, that he'd said it aloud.

"That's okay, I get it that you don't want me around," said Charlie, bitterly. "I'm sure LAPD or the DEA, or the NSA could use a hand. It's a good thing that my case worker hasn't talked to you yet – I'm sure he'd get an earful from you."

"Yeah, well maybe I _should_ give him an earful," Don snapped angrily. "It's not like you've shown the best judgment lately."

Charlie's eyes were flashing, and his voice rose. "If you're talking about J.T., we don't know anything yet. He might not know anything more about this party than I do."

"Yeah, right," Don snorted. "I told you he was a sleaze-ball. And it's not just that – you just don't think before you act."

The door opened again, and they broke off, glaring at each other. Cooke and Leach shut the door behind them again, and approached the desk, their eyes going from one angry face to the other. Cooke cleared his throat. "I have good news, Dr. Eppes. If you cooperate with us in this investigation, I have assurances that you'll get your clearance back."

Charlie took a deep breath, and he shot Don a darkly triumphant glance. "All right," he said, "I'll cooperate. What do you need me to do?"

"Simply attend the party, find out what you can about it while you're there. Get a name or at least a description of the person or people who run it, see if you can verify the illegal activities in the back rooms, give us the location. We're not going to wire you or anything – they might inspect the partygoers. I have a feeling they'll relieve you of your cell phone, but if they don't, and you know where you are, call us in – we might be able to take the place down on the spot." He handed Charlie a card. "This is my cell phone number – I wouldn't put it in your phone – memorize it instead. We need to be a little careful about being seen together – you may be watched. If there is nothing urgent, play it cool the day after the party, and meet with us at your brother's offices on Monday, first thing in the morning. It should be safe to talk there."

Charlie rose, glancing at his watch. "Okay. I have to go – I have a class that started two minutes ago. I'll call you if I have any questions." He grabbed a file and pumped the agents' hands on his way out, pointedly ignoring Don.

Don watched the door close behind him, scowling, then looked at Cooke and Leach. "Let me ask you something – his clearance-," he hesitated.

Cooke knew where he was going and nodded, then shrugged. "He was going to get it back, anyway. The guy who has been handling his case has been giving him a hard time, but the guys at the top aren't paying too much attention to him, unless he uncovered something illegal. The fact is; your brother's too valuable to them. Even if he wasn't, the opportunity he's giving us on this case is too big to pass up." He took in the expression on Don's face; anger, defeat, apprehension. "He's doing the right thing, Eppes."

"The right thing for you, maybe," Don muttered, and he brushed past them, his jaw tight, leaving them alone in the office.

………………………………………………………………………….

End, Chapter 15


	16. Missed Connections

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 16: Missed Connections **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

………………………………………………………………

J.T. had seemed pleased when Charlie called him to verify his acceptance of the invitation to the Saturday evening event. The producer had quickly been disappointed, however, when the professor informed him that he would not be attending the usual Friday night soiree at J.T.'s house. "I'm giving my fiancée a ride to the airport around 5," he explained, "and then I just want to come home and devote some time to my research. I've been neglecting it recently."

Morrison had been silent for a moment before finally assuring Charlie that he understood, and was looking forward to seeing him Saturday.

Amita had been nearly frantic trying to finish up on Don's case before she left town, and Charlie was looking forward to the trip to the airport, even if Dane Rastenbaum would be there. Besides one stolen lunch, Charlie and Amita had not spent any time together all week. Jogging across campus after his last class, he wondered wryly if the VIP lounge had a small back room where the two of them could go for a quickie. They could leave Dane to wait by himself at the gate.

Charlie was still smiling at the image when he burst through his office door, and found an empty room. This surprised him. The arrangement had been that Amita and Dane would be waiting for him. Charlie's last class dismissed at 4:45 in the afternoon; by the time he returned to his office, it would be time for them to head for LAX. He glanced quickly at his watch -- was he late? -- as he skidded to a halt in the open doorway. His watch told him that he was in fact a few minutes early, and Charlie dropped his book bag to the floor, kicking it to one side as he swiveled his head to look down the hall toward Amita's office. Maybe the two of them were in there.

"Dr. Eppes!" A voice behind him startled Charlie, and he whipped around so quickly he nearly stumbled over the dropped book bag.

"Millie," he breathed when he recognized the Division Chair. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!"

She smiled as she reached out a hand to steady him. "I've been calling your name for five minutes, Charlie! Please tell me you haven't inherited Dr. Fleinhardt's somewhat infamous absent-mindedness."

Charlie leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, lifting an eyebrow. "Sorry. I was expecting to find Amita and Rastenbaum here -- I'm giving them a ride to the airport."

Dr. Finch nodded. "That's why I'm here; Amita asked me to give you a message."

Charlie straightened, and alarm showed in his expression. "Is she all right?" He tried to look toward her office again. "Where is she?"

Millie clucked and shook her head. "You're such an alarmist, Charlie! Of course she's all right. She and Dane caught an earlier flight; they took the shuttle. She said she would e-mail you from the airport."

Charlie's face fell. "They're gone already?"

Millie smiled gently. "I'm afraid I have more potential bad news for you."

Charlie was aching to check his e-mail, but forced himself to ask. "What?"

Millie's smile became broader, and full of pride. "I worked out a deal with Georgetown this morning. Seems Larry mentioned Amita's visit, and the Division Chair of Physics called to negotiate extending her stay for two weeks. Georgetown would like Dr. Ramanujan to serve as a guest lecturer in several classes and for the Astronomical Society meeting; they'd also like Amita and Larry to present some seminars together. I only agreed under two conditions: Georgetown will return the favor this spring, when they send Dr. Fleinhardt here for two weeks; and the Department of Cognitive Sciences will devote an entire month to your cognitive emergence research next fall. They're quite excited about it -- Larry's been talking you up -- and looking forward to working with you!"

It was a lot of information to absorb. Amita was gone; Larry was coming back to CalSci, if only temporarily; Amita was gone; Georgetown was going to effectively underwrite his research; Amita was gone. Charlie settled on the most important segment of information. "Amita is gone?"

Millie rolled her eyes. "Good Lord, Charlie. Check your e-mail, already. When you're capable of rational thought again, come and see me in my office." Millie turned on her heel and left, and Charlie shot through the office door like a bullet, slamming it behind him.

He stopped long enough to grab his book bag and liberate his laptop. He had it open and booting before he even settled in the chair behind the desk. Quickly logging in to his e-mail account, Charlie scanned over at least two dozen addresses before he found what he was looking for and clicked, opening a message from Amita:

_Dear Charlie,_

_I am so sorry things worked out this way. Dane had his travel agent put us on a 'waiting list' for a better flight (direct; no stopovers!). He just found out this morning that two seats had opened up, but we had to leave earlier than planned. Then Georgetown got hold of Millie, and she signed my life away for two weeks -- I didn't even have time to stop at home for more clothes. I hope I can borrow something from Megan..._

_Anyway, I apologize in advance if she asks you to cover any of my classes. She implied that she would handle many of them herself, and spread the others around, so I hope it won't be too much of a burden for you. At least she got Georgetown to promise us Larry for__two weeks in the spring; and it's SO EXCITING that they are willing to throw the entire Dept. of Cognitive Sciences into your research next fall! I'm sure if I had any idea what I'm going to put together as a guest lecture -- plus maybe some clothes -- I'd be a lot less offended by the sudden change of plans :) !_

_Please take care of yourself while Alan and I are both out of town. Don't spend so much time with your new friends that you forget the old ones. I'll see you soon, lover._

_Amita_

_P.S. Discovered on the way here that my cell is dead, so I'll have to recharge it tonight in Washington. Will call you tomorrow for sure._

A groan of disbelief escaped Charlie and he slumped back in his chair. Not only had he been denied a last moment with Amita -- her weekend trip had somehow exploded to two weeks. He wondered, in a slight sulk, how much of a magician Rastenbaum's travel agent really was -- or even if she really existed. Dr. Dane had probably cooked up the whole story in an attempt to get Amita off to himself as soon as possible; and damned if it hadn't worked, too.

He sighed and closed the laptop, trying to decide what he should take home with him to work on over the weekend. Eventually Charlie made up his mind to just take the book bag in its current condition, and stood to leave. His cell vibrated in his inside jacket pocket, and he remembered that he had turned off the sound before his last class. He dropped to the chair again and scrabbled frantically for the phone -- maybe Amita was calling from the plane! -- flipping it open quickly and practically shouting into the cell. "Hello! Amita?"

He recognized his father's chuckle right away. "I thought _you_ had her, son. Shouldn't you two be on your way to the airport?"

"Long story," Charlie groused. "What's up with the Poison Cousins?"

"Sam and Ella send their best," Alan replied firmly. "We all had a lovely dinner last night. Your cousins, Aunt Irene, the Golddigger, and I -- at a very upscale wharf location. _Buster's Beach House and Longboard Bar_. You've heard of it, surely."

Charlie snickered into the phone. "I beg your pardon?"

Alan continued. "Sam has given up real estate -- you know how bad the market's been. He's a surfer, now."

Charlie closed his eyes and lifted his free hand to rub his aching forehead. "Dad. He's over 50."

Sarcasm dripped from Alan's response. "True. But that hasn't stopped him from getting a hair weave, opening up a board shop on the beach and hanging out with half-women."

Charlie was almost afraid to ask – but he did. "Half-women?"

"Yep," Alan confirmed. "You know. Half-naked. Half his age."

Charlie continued to massage his forehead and grinned. "Suddenly the concern for Irene's money takes on an entirely different hue."

Alan snorted. "Quite. On the other hand, I actually found Peter quite charming."

Charlie let his hand drop and stared at the silent laptop before him. "Peter."

"Absolutely," Alan shared. "Peter Piper. Irene's paramour." He hurried on before Charlie could comment. "And don't make fun of his name. The man is over 80 years old -- I'm sure he's heard them all by now."

Charlie paused; then decided it was too easy anyway. "So are they still getting married?"

"Yes," his father answered, "but they've decided to wait until after the New Year." His voice degenerated into a mumble. "I may have indicated that you boys would like to come."

Charlie reached up and pushed a fistful of hair behind his ear. "Dad...," he began warningly.

Alan hadn't gone into the call without a plan, however, and now he distracted Charlie. "There's another problem," he sighed. "I just used a site inspection of Stan's municipal project as an excuse to get down here -- but I spent several hours there today, and I just got off the phone with Stan. He wants me to stay down here and oversee things for a few weeks."

Charlie squinted as a pounding headache began to make itself known. "What the hell?" he began.

"Charlie!" admonished his father gently. "I'm concerned about some shortcuts the contractor seems to be taking, and I suspect that he is using substandard materials. We could also have some illegal labor being paid half-rate, off the books. I need to check some things out a little more thoroughly, and have some tests done."

Charlie's spine began to tingle and he sat up a little straighter. "Dad, be careful. Maybe you should come back and let Stan head down there and do his own dirty work."

"I'll be fine, son," Alan assured him. "This isn't the first time I've fought these battles, believe me. I just wanted to let you know what's going on; and I have a favor to ask of you."

Charlie's eyebrows rose. "Something I can design an algorithm for?"

Alan chuckled. "Not right now, Charlie. Unless you can think of one that will help you call your brother for me. And don't tell me to call him myself. You know how overprotective and unreasonable he can be, and I just don't want to have this conversation with him."

Charlie started tapping his fingers on top of the desk. "Thanks for that, Dad. I'm looking forward to listening to him rant at me for half-an-hour like this is somehow my fault."

Alan laughed again. "Just give him the basics, and I'll fill in all the sordid details the next time I phone him. Please, Charlie. For your old man."

Charlie huffed a noise of disgust. "Why do I let you play me like that?"

"I've wondered the same thing myself for years," Alan mused. "Only in reverse. Listen, I'm going to the assisted living facility to dine with Irene and Peter, and I'm late."

"It's not even 5 o' clock," Charlie pointed out.

Alan agreed. "I know. But it's Bridge night, and we have to make the first seating. It's imperative."

Charlie was still shaking his head and smiling when he disconnected from his father and entered '2', speed-dialing Don. He was taken completely by surprise when his brother answered in a curt, less-than-friendly voice. "What is it, Charlie? Unless you're calling to tell me you've reconsidered this hare-brained plan of yours, I'm not really interested in talking to you."

Charlie bristled. "Nice to hear your voice as well, Don."

He detected a sigh of frustration. "Charlie, we're kind-of busy here. We closed that case Amita was helping with."

"That's great!" Charlie enthused, but Don just talked over the top of him.

"Now we have hours of paperwork, and Wright wants it on his desk tonight. Besides, I really don't think I should talk to you right now. I'm still pretty angry, and Bradford said I should stop and give myself time to think when I feel this way."

Charlie almost growled out his own frustration. "But Don…"

His brother interrupted again. "Are you in the hospital? Need a ride home from the ER? Is Dad okay?"

"No, no and yes," Charlie responded succinctly, fast on his way to pissed off himself. "He wanted me to call you; he's going to be in San Diego longer than expected."

"Fine," Don answered. "You called. I'll get the details from Dad. Goodbye, Charlie."

The dead air on the cell stunned Charlie, and he took the phone away from his ear long enough to look at the display screen and see that the call was indeed over. It wasn't exactly news that Don was angry – but did his brother just hang up on him?

Charlie looked at the phone as if it had just buried a knife in his chest. Things were getting better and better. "Son of a bitch," he whispered, and heaved the phone across the room, where it splintered off the door frame in several pieces. Charlie repeated himself. _"Son of a bitch."_

………………………………………………………………

End, Chapter 16


	17. What We Do For Love

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 17: What We Do For Love **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

………………………………………………

It was a familiar feeling. For most of his life, Don had known this emotion, this…awe. He leaned against the door frame of the garage, watching Charlie, and let it all wash over him again.

Charlie usually worked with an iPod in his pocket and headphones encircling his head, but tonight the old portable CD player on the desk blared 80s rock at a decibel level that never would have been tolerated by Alan. It must be some kind of compilation disk; Pat Benatar had been daring Don to hit her with his best shot when he had stepped from his SUV in the driveway, and now Tom Petty and his Heartbreakers were begging him not to 'do me like that'. When Billy Idol, with his rebel yell, began demanding 'more, more, more!," there was an almost imperceptible acceleration to Charlie's motions as the expressions fairly flowed from his fingertips onto the blackboard.

When he was in the zone like this, it became difficult to tell where chalk ended and finger began. This evening's chalk of choice was a pastel blue, and the dust clouds created by the limestone and gypsum settled quickly, so Don knew that it was a hard chalk. He remembered when they were younger. Chalk was softer, and almost always white, and the debris that settled in his brother's hair and followed him all around the house always made Don think of the Charlie Brown character 'Pigpen'.

The evening was a little cool, and Don had stood in the open door for a while, mesmerized by Charlie's dance with the chalkboard. The younger man was definitely dancing the lead. It was almost a surrealistic _Pasa Doble_: Charlie would lunge at the old-fashioned green slate like a matador burying his sword in a bull. The board, suspended as it was from the ceiling, in one of Charlie's intricate pulley systems, would dance with him. It pulled back from the force of his movements, swung forward again when Charlie moved his hand and subtly changed pressure.

When his back began to get cold, Don fully entered the garage, still unseen by his brother. He stopped at the small dorm-sized refrigerator, which Charlie kept fully stocked with bottles of water, and grabbed one before he moved on to the somewhat-rickety desk. Settling in the chair behind it, Don sipped at his water and continued to watch. Continued to remember.

He smiled when Aerosmith began to describe some unfortunate dude who looked like a lady. The song was released in 1987 – 21 years ago. Charlie had been 12, and had loved the song. He was convinced that there was some sort of dance that went with it; he mistakenly thought the words of the chorus were, "Do the Funky Lady". Don was 17, and a little pissed off that his little brother was in the same grade he was. He had no problem at all enlisting the help of several friends. One weekend, he and his buddies taught Charlie the most ridiculous and embarrassing choreography they could think of, and almost succeeded in convincing the little twerp to audition the 'Funky Lady' for the school's talent show. Always prepared, even then, Charlie had gone out and bought the _Permanent Vacation_ album, so that he could practice. When he saw the song's true title, the gig was up.

The memory made Don nostalgic, and he blinked rapidly a few times as he leaned forward and hit the _Off_ button on the CD player.

The sudden silence accomplished what nothing else could, and Charlie faltered. He cocked his head, frowned, and turned toward the desk. His eyes grew almost comically wide when he saw Don sitting there. "How long have you been here?"

Don ignored the question and stood. "God, Charlie," he said instead. "It's like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel, or seeing Baryshnikov dance Balanchine, or something." Charlie stood speechless, uncertain which surprised him more – Don's sudden appearance in his garage, or his brother's clandestine interest in the arts.

Don set the bottle of water of the corner of the desk and continued his quiet soliloquy. "It's not that I haven't missed you. That I don't want you back in the office. I know I've looked like a jerk about the whole clearance thing, and I'm sorry; that's not what I intended. Intend." He sighed and took a step away from the desk. A filled blackboard rested on the concrete floor, leaning against the wall just behind the desk chair, and Don angled slightly to touch the slate almost reverently. "I've been angry – but not so much at you. In a lot of ways, I admire what you did. I'm disgusted with myself, for letting it bother me so much. For taking it as a personal affront, and for worrying about how it will affect my clearance rate." He turned to face Charlie fully again. "But mostly, for ever letting you get involved in the first place. This is where you belong, Charlie. Your research…I'm sure it's suffered because of all the time you put in at the F.B.I."

Charlie was growing more stunned by the minute, his mouth gaping open, and Don smiled sadly and came to stand just in front of his brother. He looked him in the eye for a long moment, then swiveled his head to look at the blackboard behind them. "When I see you like this…Charlie, it's the way people must have felt when they watched Babe Ruth pick up a bat. I don't want to compromise one of the most brilliant minds of my generation." His tone hardened. "I also don't want to see you get hurt. You're my brother, and I love you. You're playing with fire, and you could be seriously burned. Buddy, please don't get involved in this _Fantasy_ thing. I've got a bad feeling about it."

As if Charlie weren't close enough to a melt-down already, Don suddenly grabbed him in a tight embrace, one hand ruffling the curly hair on the back of his head. Charlie's own arms rose of their own accord to return the almost-unprecedented hug, but he honestly could not make himself speak. "Just think about it," Don asked, breaking off the embrace all too soon. He smiled wearily and touched Charlie's stubbled cheek lightly. "Get some sleep, Chuck. It's nearly midnight. I'll call you later."

Don turned and left, disappearing from the garage so quickly that Charlie stood swaying in place and began to think he had imagined the entire thing. Then he looked at the desk, saw the half-empty bottle of water, and knew that he had not. "Donny," he whispered, finding his voice at last. Further vocabulary seemed beyond him. "Donny…"

Don had left the garage door standing open when he left, and Charlie breathed his mantra toward the dark abyss that lay beyond: "Donny."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don had asked Charlie to reconsider, to "think about it", and the mathematician spent most of the night doing just that. He finally fell asleep just before dawn, and it was after 10 before he reached DEA Agent Cooke at the number he had urged Charlie to memorize.

Charlie identified himself and cut right to the chase. "Agent Cooke, this is Dr. Eppes. Charlie Eppes."

Cooke responded in confusion. "Has there been a change of plans, Dr. Eppes? Agent Leach and I are on our way to a meeting with A.D. Wright at the F.B.I. – to bring him up to speed on what we've got so far."

Charlie took a deep breath. "I'm going to call J.T, and beg off the party. I've thought about this very seriously, and I'm afraid I can't help you."

Cooke's tone became icy. "This is the only way to get your clearance back, Dr. Eppes. I thought you understood that."

"I do," Charlie assured him. "I'll let that go. My brother is very concerned about this, and frankly, his opinion means a great deal more to me than yours does."

"We'll sweeten the deal," Cooke responded immediately. "Agent Leach and I will make it clear to Wright that the DEA and the NSA both urge the A.D. to call off his internal affairs hounds. We'll get the investigation into your brother stopped."

Charlie nearly choked on his quick intake of air. "_What?_ Investigation? Don's being investigated?"

"That can't come as a surprise to you," Cooke replied. "He's had a bumpy few years. Crystal Hoyle. Granger and the Chinese. A sexual relationship with a subordinate member of his team; which looks even more suspicious when you consider that the only other woman on the team, a valued F.B.I. veteran, transferred to another jurisdiction – a location quite removed from L.A. His own brother e-mailed questionable data to Pakistan and threw away his Top Secret Clearance. Need I go on?"

Charlie began to stutter in his apprehension. "Th-that's not r-right! Col-Colby was vindicated b-by an F.B.I. investi-tigation. M-M-Megan left for a pro-promotion! D-D-D-Don had no idea w-what I was going to d-do!"

"When you add it all up, professor, your brother looks suspect. Aren't you supposed to be good at math?"

Charlie wanted to hang up on the arrogant ass – but he couldn't let Don suffer any more for his actions. "You can stop it?"

He could almost hear Cooke smiling. The DEA Agent knew that he had won. "I'm sure we can. The F.B.I. won't stand against both of us."

Charlie mumbled miserably into his cell. "I'll do it. I'll go to the party."

"You've made the right decision," Cooke answered. "We'll debrief you bright and early Sunday morning, in your brother's office." The DEA agent disconnected and glanced at Agent Leach in the passenger seat of the sedan. "That was close. He wanted to pull out; leave us high and dry."

Leach was staring at him with wide, troubled eyes. "What did you do? There's no investigation into Eppes. Is there?"

Cooke laughed out loud, and turned his attention back to the road. "Nah. Got the little genius back on our side pretty damn fast, though."

Leach shook his head. "If Eppes ever finds out you did that…I've heard things about him."

Cooke snorted. "Then maybe he_ should_ be investigated." He glanced sideways at Leach again. "Relax. Little Bro is never gonna spill the beans – and now he'll be a lot easier to handle. Trust me."

Leach just sighed, and fogged up the passenger door's window.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Did you think about what I said?"

Charlie tried to scoot further into the corner of the couch and squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes. Yes, Don, I did."

The older brother waited for the younger to offer more information. When none was forthcoming, his heart fell, and he knew what the answer to his next question would be. "You're going through with it anyway, aren't you?"

_For you_, Charlie thought. Aloud, he tried to ease Don's mind. "I'll be careful, Don. I promise."

The words were accepted with a sigh. "Your clearance means that much to you?"

_You do_, Charlie's mind answered. He swallowed thickly. "Yes."

He wished Don would get angry, would yell at him, would rail. Anything but what he actually did.

"Watch your back," Don advised softly; sadly. Then he disconnected without saying good-bye.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Ramon, the evening's limo driver, negotiated the empty shopping carts carefully. When he braked to allow right-of-way to a pedestrian, Charlie forced another smile onto his face and arched an eyebrow in Morrison's direction. "Pretty elaborate practical joke, J.T. We're going grocery shopping?"

His host's teeth gleamed white in the dark interior of the vehicle. "Mr. X has arranged transportation. This week's meeting point is Safeway® -- Ramon will take us around to the loading dock truck-parking area."

Charlie peered nervously through the window. It was almost completely dark already,but he thought he might be able to see something in the lights from the store. "I thought you were kidding about that. How much farther do we have to go in the back of that…thing?"

Morrison chuckled fondly. "I don't really know. The exact location _is_ a secret, after all!" He took pity on his beautiful young friend. "Don't worry, Charlie – it's like a lounge on wheels. There's even a bartender. Of course, the wine selection is not on a par with my own wine cellar – but it will serve as a distraction."

Ramon stopped the limo, and Charlie could see a short line of people surrounding a semi that was parked at the far edge of the lot. They were giving up their cell phones, showing their passes, and being assisted into the trailer of the truck. His heart began to pound, and his palms were growing sweaty. "I'm a little claustrophobic," he confessed. "I'm not sure I want to take even a short trip in a windowless, airless box." He turned his head away from the window, back in J.T.'s direction. "Can't you just explain to your…friend? Maybe we could drive in the car. Just this once."

Morrison shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's simply not allowed. Besides, once we get there, I'm sure you'll have such a good time that you will come with me again."

Charlie continued to fret. "What's the big secret, anyway? Is there something illegal going on at this party?"

J.T. stiffened. "You hurt my feelings, Charlie. Would I subject you to something like that? Mr. X simply keeps his identity, and the location of the parties, under wraps because he serves a very exclusive clientele. The acts are professionals, mostly from other countries – but brought here quite legally, I assure you. Mr. X pays them quite handsomely to perform at his parties for a few months. The performers acquire a green card and a free trip to America, plus the money in a fund for their education. He even pays for their lodging, and food – and the menu is quite a cut beyond bagels for breakfast."

Morrison shut his mouth quickly; afraid he'd given away too much already. Charlie was looking out the window again, so he couldn't tell from his face if the 'bagels for breakfast' crack had hit a nerve. "I didn't realize you were claustrophobic," he finally said, changing the subject. "If the truck is too much for you, we can skip the party."

Now the ball was in Charlie's court. He took a deep breath and faced J.T. with a smile. "Nonsense. It sounds amazing, and I'm sure you're right. I'm sorry for sounding unappreciative, J.T. Thank-you again for the invitation. If you'll just talk to me during the trip, I'm sure I'll forget I'm in a moving coffin."

Morrison laughed, genuinely amused – and relieved that he had not been caught in his _faux pas_. Ramon opened the door of the limo from outside, and J.T, leaned forward and tapped Charlie on the knee. Even that innocent contact sent an electric current through him, and he suppressed a shiver of delight. "After you, my friend. After you."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

End, Chapter 17


	18. Gold, Silver or Bronze

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 18: Gold, Silver, or Bronze**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**…………………………………………………**

Charlie and Morrison joined the queue, and Charlie glanced around them curiously. The crowd didn't look like the types who spent much time in lines – perfect hair, toned physiques, manicures, expensive jewelry, and the certain indefinable air of privilege that surrounded them spoke to their wealth, to their station in life. It began to dawn on Charlie how coveted an invitation must be, for these people to suffer the wait in line and a ride in a semi to get to the party. They moved up, and a man waved a wand over them, similar to the type used in airports. It beeped, and he spoke to them briskly. "Cell phone and wallet, please."

Charlie watched J.T. hand over his phone and wallet, and added his own wallet to the pile, blushing and grinning a little nervously at his new friend. "I sort of shattered my phone yesterday. Bad conversation with my brother…I need to go to the dealer and get a replacement Monday." His blush deepened. "For the phone, I mean. Not sure there's a dealership that replaces brothers." J.T., thrilled beyond measure to hear that things were not well between the brothers, laughed loudly, and latched a proprietary hand onto Charlie's shoulder. "I'll have to remember not to get you angry, Professor!"

Charlie shrugged and turned his head, trying to keep an eye on his wallet. The man who had relieved him of it was just turning, giving Morrison's cell and their wallets to two others at a table behind him. The cell phone was put into a plastic bag that bore a label – Charlie assumed it was the passenger's name. The wallets and the women's handbags were inspected thoroughly – the drivers' licenses and credit cards examined for authenticity. Charlie tried to keep his in his line of sight; it was a little disconcerting to have some stranger go through one's wallet, but the man with the wand asked him to step aside and be scanned again, and so he didn't get to see the man finish the wallet inspection. This time the wand was applied without generating any beeps, and when Charlie turned back around, his wallet was handed to him. He was tempted to open it up and look inside to make sure nothing had been taken, but the other passengers weren't, so he just put his back in his pocket, with a mental note to check it later. Finally, they stepped up to the entrance to the truck, and handed over their passes to another man, who performed yet another scan – Charlie assumed that there must have been a microchip embedded in the plastic that was being picked up by the scanner. All of it was done quickly, quietly, and although the back lot was deserted, Charlie could see men posted at the driveway, near the corner of the Safeway®, making sure it stayed that way.

During the process, his mind was turning frantically; he realized that there was no way for him to know where they were going – the semi was enclosed; he wouldn't be able to see out. Even when they got to _Fantasy_, if he recognized where they were, he wouldn't be able to call in the location – they had just taken all the cell phones that weren't shattered on the floor of someone's office. As he pondered the situation, he heard Morrison speak, quietly, "Don't worry, it's really not any worse than being on an airplane."

He realized that he must look distressed, and that Morrison assumed it was because he was apprehensive of the enclosed space. He smiled, shakily. "Thanks – I'm sure I'll be fine."

Morrison patted him on the arm and turned back around, and Charlie contemplated him for a moment. It seemed inconceivable that Morrison would know about the back rooms at _Fantasy_; he seemed so kind, so genuinely concerned with Charlie's well-being, that Charlie couldn't imagine that he went to the party for anything other than the front-room entertainment. He knew that Don and Agents Cooke and Leach thought otherwise, but he refused to believe that his benefactor was involved in anything other than the legal entertainment. In fact, he was a bit skeptical that there was really anything illegal involved. Cooke and Leach's investigation was based on nothing but rumors, and it could very well be that the rumors had been spread on purpose, to make _Fantasy_ seem more risqué, more fascinating. It wouldn't surprise him at if the talk of drugs, gambling and prostitution had all been hype.

They ascended a short flight of steps into the rear of the truck, passed through a short stack of cardboard boxes, and then through the doorway of a false wall, painted black on the outside. It wouldn't survive even a cursory inspection in the daytime – the black wall would be visible behind the boxes, but at night, it would probably pass a quick inspection. If the rear doors were opened, it would look like boxes were stacked all the way to the rear of the vehicle, and the black wall would simply appear to be the dimness inside the semi. Charlie stepped between the boxes and through the open doorway, and blinked.

Any resemblance to a semi was erased once inside; it more resembled the first class section of an airplane, although all of the seats were facing the rear of the vehicle. In the far back, behind the seats, Charlie could see two attendants and a small bar, stocked with top shelf liquor. He could smell food, too; something delectable was also on board, and the smell mingled with the scents of expensive perfumes and colognes, and an underlying citrus tone that served to mask any undesirable smells of the road. They were shown to their seats, and Morrison slipped in first, leaving Charlie the aisle.

"Perhaps the claustrophobia will be less bothersome if you sit on the outside," he murmured.

The seats were comfortable and roomy, and an attendant was immediately at their side, taking drink orders. Charlie hesitated; he had to keep a clear head, but he was already feeling a little closed-in, and they hadn't even shut the rear doors yet. He looked up at the woman, who was wearing what looked like a bad-girl version of a flight attendant's skirt and jacket – it was short, and clung to her curves like paint. "I recommend their 'dirty martini,'" said Morrison, and Charlie glanced at him, a bit disconcerted.

Morrison laughed. "It has a splash of olive juice," he explained, and as Charlie flushed at his obvious ignorance, J.T. looked up at the 'stewardess.' "Two dirty martinis," he said, and she sashayed off, only to return seconds later with their drinks.

It turned out to be a long ride, and after the first few turns, Charlie gave up trying to figure out which direction they were heading. Once the back door was closed, a screen descended and a custom-made video was played – scenes of breathtaking outdoor scenes were backed by music, making the guests feel as though they had a view to the outside. It also served the purpose of increasing the disorientation – often the camera angle in the video would change in the opposite direction that the semi was turning. Hors d'oeuvres were served – tapas that night – the food had a Latin flair, and the drinks kept coming. There wasn't much to his martini, Charlie realized, other than 80 proof alcohol and a splash of olive juice, and he sipped sparingly, trying to keep down his alcohol intake. As he did so, he glanced over the other passengers, and noticed their dinner companion from the week before, Mirah, sitting two rows up and to the right. He took another sip of his martini, wondering idly if she was wearing underwear tonight.

Morrison talked about scenes in the video as they rode; it was obvious that he was well traveled. By the time they reached their destination, over an hour and a half later, Charlie was relaxed, comfortable; actually enjoying himself.

They unloaded in what appeared to be the loading dock of a large warehouse. The semi had backed inside the dock doors, so Charlie had no view of the outside unless he moved to the side and looked along the truck to the dock door opening. He was able to do that unobtrusively by pretending to step aside to allow other guests to come off the truck, but it was dark and all he could see was the corner of another warehouse, illuminated by a security light. He could see no other lights beyond it, and the bit of ground he could see next to it looked like desert. They were at some kind of warehouse or industrial complex, out in the middle of nowhere. Charlie's felt a twinge of disappointment; he really had no idea where he was. Unless someone dropped a clue during the course of the evening, he wouldn't have a location to give Cooke and Leach. He wondered uncomfortably what would happen if he couldn't produce the information that they wanted. Would they back down on their promise to have the investigation on Don dropped?

Those thoughts were rolling through his head as they stepped through the doors into a makeshift lobby. Temporary walls had been put up to obscure the view beyond, and two gorgeous women in evening gowns were checking a passenger list, and providing plastic cards strung on neck chains for the party-goers. Charlie noticed that there were three different card colors – bronze, silver, and gold. As he got to the head of the line, one of the women asked his name and checked it against a manifest, and he was handed a bronze card. He looped the chain around his neck, glancing surreptitiously backward to see what color J.T. received. The woman was handing him a gold card, but J.T. held up a hand. "No," he said, "there must be some mistake. I should have bronze."

Charlie glanced back at the woman, so he missed J.T.'s meaningful jerk of the head. The woman looked at the manifest again, appearing just a bit flustered; then recovered. "Of course, Mr. Morrison," she said, handing him a bronze card. "My apologies."

"None needed, my dear," he said, and Charlie turned back as a man behind J.T. him gave him a soft slap on the arm. "You shouldn't have told her," he said, loudly, grinning.

Morrison just smiled amiably. "I'm sure you're right. Although it's not the worth the risk of not being invited back."

The cardholders moved forward and down a short dark hallway, and as they approached the end, two double doors swung open in front of them. The effect was intended to dazzle, and it did. The group moved into a large, cavernous room, which looked like a large club. It was dark, except for a large floor level stage at the far end, and some low lighting at two bars that flanked the back wall. The walls of the room and portions of the stage were festooned with glimmering swaths of sheer material, which caught the pastel colors of the lights that played off the stage, and made the walls themselves appear to be moving, undulating. Comfortable chairs were scattered gathered around low tables, and Morrison led the way to a grouping near the stage. As Charlie sank into a chair, he could see other doorways leading off the main room. Some appeared open, and bore titles like the _Deco Lounge_, and _Futurista_. Another one, entitled _Dreamscape_, was manned with security, and Charlie saw a couple bearing gold passes make a beeline for the entry. A woman ran their cards through a scanner, and the security stepped back to allow them to pass. _Dreamscape_ was obviously the entry point to the back rooms.

There were quite a few people there already, Charlie noticed, and he figured that there must be at least five semi-loads of guests. Some of the gold card members were ascending stairs at the back of the room, and as Charlie looked up, he could see that some second level warehouse offices had been converted into a loge of sorts, which looked out onto the stage.

Morrison signaled for a waitress, and leaned forward, his knee lightly touching Charlie's. "The entertainment in _Deco_ and _Futurista_ is first-rate," he said, "but nothing compares to the show here in the main room. It's called 'Dreamland,' and it's like nothing you've ever seen before." He drank in the young man's face as Charlie's gaze wandered, the dark eyes slightly widened; taking in the spectacle. With an effort, J.T. forced himself to pull back in his chair. Damn Markus for withholding Charlie's back room pass. It really would have been very little risk to take him back, with the aid of a bit of Rohypnol. More than likely, the young man wouldn't even remember what happened to him. The thought was so arousing, for a fleeting moment Morrison wished that he hadn't relinquished his gold pass – he could have slipped away to satisfy his urges, then returned to the main room. It was better, however, he decided with a sigh, that Charlie think they were on the same level, until he gauged his reaction to _Fantasy._

A waitress brought their drinks. She was clad, like all of the help, in a black, formfitting jacket and pants – the black broken only by a pair of white French cuffs. Conservative, except for the low cut of the blazer, and the proximity of her cleavage made Charlie glance modestly away, as the sudden lone, haunting notes of a solo flute floated through the air. There was a slight murmur and rustling as the crowd found positions – some of them in chairs, but many of them standing in the open space near the bars, behind the chairs. A hush fell; then a sylph-like figure floated onto the stage. It was a girl – it was difficult to tell from the make-up but she looked very young. Charlie would have guessed around thirteen if it had been another setting, but he reasoned she had to be older. He couldn't imagine that children were allowed to perform in nightclubs.

She was pale, her skin nearly translucent, her hair a silver blonde, and she was strikingly beautiful. Her face was calm, composed; she wore an almost dreamy expression, and she was dressed in a form-fitting unitard that matched her skin color. In fact, she would have looked nude, except for the fact that the unitard was covered with dustings of sequins and rhinestones, which shimmered and twinkled in the lights.

The flute tones became a bit louder, and the girl began to dance, with graceful floating movements interspersed by controlled poses that looked nearly impossible, both in terms of strength and flexibility. Others began to appear on the stage – not all of them on foot. Some floated in on wires, or began to swoop in on ropes and swings suspended from the ceiling. All of them were dressed in sequin-studded unitards to match their skin tones, and all of them were thin, toned; perfect bodies covered in shimmering light. They were also all young – many of them were young adults, but none looked older than their twenties, and there were some younger than the girl who had originally appeared. Charlie's brow knit slightly, as he watched them – certainly it couldn't be legal for such young people to perform there – could it? Perhaps they had special dispensation. Or possibly, this was one of the rumored infractions.

The group performed for over two hours, performing feats that combined dance and amazing acrobatics to different types of music. It was mesmerizing, and Charlie realized that part way into the first hour he was on his fourth drink of the evening. He made a mental note to slow down, and took a sip as he watched, trying to put a finger on something that disturbed him. It was their eyes, he finally decided; the eyes of the performers. All of them wore a dreamy expression, a vacant, far-away look that he thought at first was rehearsed, but as he looked closer, he could see that their pupils looked odd, dilated. Were they drugged? He shook his head slightly; it just didn't jive with Morrison's explanation that the acrobats were professional gymnasts, from Europe.

A voice murmured in his ear. "Aren't you enjoying the show?" He turned to find himself almost nose to nose with J.T. and he sat back slightly.

"Of course," he replied automatically. He realized that he must have been frowning slightly, and he tried to cover. "Some of the things they're doing – well they just don't seem to be physically possible. I was trying to figure out how they're doing it."

J.T.'s eyes roved over his face, just a second too long, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. J.T. sat back immediately, and nodded. "I thought the same thing myself, when I first saw it," he said. He seemed satisfied by Charlie's response, but Charlie took care to applaud and look appreciative for the remainder of the show.

It didn't, in fact, end – not entirely. The main show was two hours long, packed with performers and choreography, but even when it drew to a close and the crowd began to drift around, a few performers still cavorted about the stage, swinging on the trapeze and doing stunts, to lend atmosphere to the room. Dance music started and lights began to flash; and the room took on a more conventional club atmosphere. Morrison invited Charlie to tour the other rooms, and for two more hours they drifted about, socializing with some of J.T.'s acquaintances – and there were many. The other rooms were also striking – the _Deco Lounge_ was decorated, true to its name, with an art deco motif, and had a sultry, smoky, film noir atmosphere. It featured gorgeous vocalists crooning jazz, and made one feel they'd instantly stepped back into 1940. _Futurista_ was a slick, ultramodern bar with a light show comprised of lasers and fiber optics, but the main show was provided by two robotic bartenders, that whirled bottles and mixed drinks with a flurry of mechanical arms. Charlie lost himself for a while there; he was fascinated, and at length he turned around, only to find that J.T. had gone back to the main room.

Now that he was unobserved, he took a closer look around _Futurista_ at the card carriers. It was easy to determine what the bronze card holders could do – they were allowed access to the main showroom, _Futurista_ and the _Deco Lounge_, with drinks and food provided as part of the entertainment. The gold cardholders could access the loge upstairs and more importantly, _Dreamscape_, the back part of the building. The question was – what did the silver cards do? He saw woman wearing one, and as she headed out to the main room, he decided to follow her. As he passed through the entrance, he saw that J.T. was talking to a tall man on the far side of the cavernous room; the stranger was all in black; black suit, black dress shirt, and black tie, and he stood in a corner, his face obscured by shadow. Charlie glanced at them; then looked again at the woman, covering his scrutiny by taking a sip of his drink. She was weaving a little, and appeared to be inebriated. He kept his eye on her while pretending to watch the acrobats, and after a few moments, she disappeared down a side hallway through a doorway to the left of the stage.

Charlie hesitated. There was a sign that said 'Restrooms;' at the entrance – she could simply be going to the ladies' room. Then another couple, both with silver passes, and yet another person with a gold pass went through the entrance. It wouldn't hurt to follow them, Charlie decided, and see what was down that hallway – and now was the perfect opportunity, while J.T. was occupied. It was time he did what he came here to do – find out what _Fantasy_ really was. With one last glance behind him, he slipped through the doorway, and into the hall.

**…………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 18


	19. Dreamscape

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 19: Dreamscape **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………..**

Markus followed J.T.'s gaze, and watched as Morrison's young guest emerged from _Futurista_, and stood for a moment, sipping his drink. His eyes played over J.T.'s face. "I have to say, I've never seen you this obsessed."

J.T. flushed, and turned back to him, trying to cover his discomfort with a grin and shrug. "You know me," he said. "Love 'em and leave 'em."

Markus' lip curled, in a nasty smile. "You mean love 'em and dismantle 'em," he countered. "There isn't much left when you get through. Although a few of them seem to thrive on that treatment. Does Ramon still work for you?"

J.T. made a face. "Yes, although I'm not sure for how much longer. He has a nasty jealous streak."

"You could do worse than to stick with him. You two seem to be made for each other."

J.T. shook his head. "He's beautiful, but brainless – and he enjoys the pain too much. There's no sense of conquest." His gaze wandered back to his guest. "Charlie, on the other hand – so intelligent, so innocent – to outwit him, to defile him…," he sighed, and then turned back to Markus with a knowing smirk. "Of course, that's what _Fantasy_'s all about, isn't it? Charlie_ is_ my fantasy." His look turned calculating. "Which brings me back to my original request – when will you issue him a gold pass?"

Markus shrugged; his eyes on Charlie. "Perhaps next week. We'll see how he reacts to this visit." He wasn't about to admit it to J.T., but Charles Eppes would be under intense scrutiny in the coming week. He looked at Morrison. "Are you sure he's ready for that?"

"I'll take him into _Stairway to Heaven_ first," replied J.T. "A round or two of the drug _du jour_, perhaps a roofie or two, and he won't remember a thing. I'll make some videotape of our session, and after that, he'll have no choice but to comply." He turned to look back at Charlie, in time to see him take the exit for the restrooms. "Who knows, perhaps he'll find he enjoys it, and if not, there's blackmail – when it comes to upstanding citizens, it works every time. He won't want to risk his reputation, his relationship with his fiancée; which, thanks to me, is currently a bit rocky. One night in _Dreamscape_, Markus, and he'll belong to me."

**……………………………………………………..**

Charlie made his way down the hallway, following the man with the gold pass. Up ahead, he could see the couple and the woman he had originally spied with the silver cards pass the restroom, and head for another entrance further down the hallway. Judging from the occasional support beam on his left side, Charlie surmised that to his left was an outside wall of the warehouse. To his right was an interior wall; he knew that on the other side of that was the stage. The entrance to the restrooms, and the other doorways that broke off to the right down the hall, all led to portions of the warehouse behind the stage, behind the main showroom – possibly into _Dreamscape_ itself.

As Charlie drew closer to the entrance, he could see that there was a table staffed by personnel wearing the uniforms of the help – the black blazer and pants with the white French cuffs. No – not white, he realized suddenly; these staff members wore silver cuffs. Down the hall, he could see yet another entrance, and it was run by members in pale gold cuffs. He moved to his left so he could get a look at the sign above the doorways. '_Dreamscape' _glittered in gold lights at the far entrance– it was apparently another entrance to the back rooms. The gold cardholder in front of him went on down the hallway to that entrance. The silver pass holders had stopped at the table directly before him, and Charlie examined the sign over that doorway – '_Stairway to Heaven_,' it read. He got in line behind them – perhaps he could slip in with them.

That idea vanished as he saw that they had to swipe their cards through a card reader to gain access, but he decided to play ignorant – the longer he stood there, the more he would learn. He was rewarded with a quick peek as the doors opened to let in the woman he'd originally followed, and he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a roulette wheel. A man pushed out through the door as the woman went in; his eyes glazed, with the vestiges of white powder on his upper lip, and the man in line in front of Charlie, exclaimed, "Joey!" Joey's glazed eyes shifted towards him and he broke out in a grin.

"Mike!" he exclaimed, and the two men bumped fists.

Mike's girlfriend grinned. "You've got blow on your lip, Joey."

Joey blinked and wiped his lip, and then grinned. "That's some primo stuff in there," he said.

Mike smirked, as his girlfriend scanned her card. "Hope you saved some for us. Later."

"Later," echoed Joey, and he made off down the hallway, as Mike scanned his card and the couple moved to enter.

Charlie took another quick look – he couldn't see much besides the roulette wheel, but it didn't matter – the rumors of gambling and drugs were apparently true; coke-snorting Joey hadn't left much doubt in that department. He looked at the staff operating the card scanner, just as they turned their eyes on him. There was a woman running the scanner; she, like the performers and their waitress, had a dreamy appearance; her eyes dilated and unfocused. In fact, Charlie was beginning to realize, all the staff seemed to be high on something, except for a handful of very large men in black suits – obviously security staff. They appeared to be sharp-eyed and watchful; one of them was stationed at this entrance, and was giving Charlie some pointed scrutiny. "You can't enter here with a bronze card, sir," he said, and the woman at the scanner turned her dreamy eyes on him, her expression vaguely perturbed.

"Oh," said Charlie, feigning surprise. "This is my first visit – I didn't realize."

"Your sponsor should have told you," the woman said, reprovingly.

"Sponsor?" echoed Charlie.

"The person who invited you," said the man.

"You mean J.T. Morrison," offered Charlie.

A look of surprise crossed both the guard's and the woman's face, and the woman said, "Mr. Morrison should know better." Her voice was oddly flat, as if she were spouting rehearsed lines, without inflection.

"He probably told me – I just don't listen very well," said Charlie, with what he hoped was an engaging smile. "So, how do I get in here?"

"You don't, unless Mr. X approves it," said the man. "You'll have to take it up with your sponsor, and he'll request access from Mr. X. If you're approved, you'll get a silver card, and you can enter _Stairway to Heaven_."

Charlie's eyes drifted upward to the sign above the door. "And what's in here?"

The man shook his head, brusquely. "If you aren't approved to enter, you aren't approved to know. Step aside, please, sir. When you get your silver card, we'll be happy to let you in."

A group of four had queued up behind him, and Charlie stepped out of their way, and walked back down the hallway, musing. His drink was empty, and he decided to stop in the restroom on the way, just in case J.T. came wandering back there looking for him – the restroom would make a good excuse. He pushed through the door into a large restroom with multiple stalls. There was another exit door on the other side of the room, and its position made Charlie realize that it must lead behind the stage. He stepped over to the sink, set down his empty glass and washed his hands, pondering the doorway. There was a card scanner built into the wall next to the door, and above it, a small sign. Charlie stepped over to grab a paper towel, and took a closer look. _Dreamscape_, it said, and he realized with sudden excitement that the restrooms must open into the back rooms, also. It made sense, he thought to himself; they'd converted a warehouse into a club, and it was one thing to set up temporary partitions and walls, but another to reposition plumbing. This set of restrooms served both parts of the building.

He took a quick look around; he could hear someone in one of the stalls, and there was a man at the far end, at a urinal, but he was swaying badly, and his back was turned. Charlie crossed over to the door with two quick strides and gave it a pull. Not surprisingly, it didn't budge. He took another look over his shoulder, and then pulled the chain over his head and ran his bronze card through the scanner. There was a small red light in the scanner – it stayed red, and again the door didn't budge. Suddenly, he heard shuffling and a voice on the other side, and he quickly stepped backwards, shoving his card in his pocket, and then darted to the sink again to wash his hands.

A man stumbled through the door, gold card in hand – he'd obviously just run it through a scanner on the other side of the door. He was undeniably trashed – drunk, high, or both, and he slapped his card and neck chain down on the small shelf over the sink, and staggered off down the row of stalls, abruptly turning into one halfway down. A split second later, the sound of retching filled the room.

Charlie turned and stared at the gold card on the shelf, in time to see the metal ball link chain slithering over the edge, threatening to take the card with it. Instinctively, he reached out and caught it, and then just stood there for a minute, staring at it, the chain swinging from his hand. It would be a simple matter to swipe the card, and gain entry to _Dreamscape_. The man to whom it belonged was so drunk he probably wouldn't even remember where he left it. Still, there was risk. What if J.T. came looking for him? What if there was another check on the other side, and they found out that the card didn't belong to him?

He shot another glance down the row of stalls. The man at the far end had finished his business at the urinal, and was turning, starting to head back toward the sinks. There wasn't much time – and in that instant, Charlie decided he had to take the chance. One quick look, he decided, and he would get out, then head back to the main showroom. He stepped over to the card reader and swiped the card, and when the light in the scanner turned green, he opened the door.

Once through the door, one of his fears was realized – there was another checkpoint set up a few feet down the hallway. Like the others, it was staffed by a beautiful spaced-out person at the scanner – this time a young man, along with a big beefy security type in a suit. For a moment, Charlie was tempted to duck back into the restroom, but they'd already seen him, so he took deep breath, walked forward and presented the card. The young man scanned it, and Charlie held his breath, but after a second, the man handed it back and said languidly, "Thank you, Mr. Sorenson."

Charlie took the card and hurried past the checkpoint before they could question him. He was in a long hallway, which was flanked by doors on either side, all of them closed. Up ahead, however, was a larger opening, and Charlie could hear music and the sounds of people talking, and he headed that way. As he approached the opening and looked in, he saw what appeared to be simply another bar, dimly lit, and filled with people. At first glance, it really didn't appear to be much different than the other lounges, and Charlie felt an odd feeling of something akin to vindication. When it came down to it, he really didn't want to find deep dark secrets here – he didn't want to indict J.T.

A woman in a long sequined evening gown, apparently some type of hostess; approached him. "Hello," she said, smiling, "you're new here, aren't you? Would you like me to show you how this works?"

A look of relief washed over Charlie's face. "Yes, please," he said, and she beckoned, leading him to the side of the room. Several terminals stood there, similar to automated airport check-in screens, and the monitor in front of him read, "Welcome to your Fantasy."

She hit the screen with a forefinger, and a menu came up, with a half-dozen boxes. 'Spa,' read one, 'Conversation,' read another, and Charlie thought to himself that perhaps the back room was somewhat tame after all. That thought vanished as he read the next one, which was labeled 'Narcotics,' and the next, which said simply 'Sex.' The woman glanced at him, smiling at his dumbfounded expression, and pressed the 'Narcotics' button. Charlie noticed that she, like the security men, was one of the few members of the staff who didn't seem to be stoned; she obviously was in charge of the back room.

The 'Narcotics' button brought up another menu, and she pointed to it. "As you can see, you can pick your drug of choice. 'Uppers' gets you amphetamines, cocaine, and more. You'll find heroin under 'Downers,' LSD or mushrooms under 'Psychedelics.' The 'Performance' button gives you performance enhancers, like Viagra, or Ecstasy. Simply press the button you want, scan your card, and a dealer will be over to see you shortly with your order."

She backed out of the menu, and went to 'Sex,' drawing up a second menu with buttons that read,' 'Romantic,' 'Passionate,' 'S&M,' 'Group,' and 'Room.' "Each of these has sub-menus of their own," she said. "For example, you can pick an anonymous partner by selecting age and sex, or you can choose from our cast of performers – if there was one who caught your eye, simply scan the pictures, and select the one you want. It's quite easy – when you find what you want hit the 'Select' button at the bottom, scan your card; and we'll set you up. Don't forget to look at the pictures of the rooms – each one is different, and is equipped differently. In addition to picking a partner or partners, you'll need to select which room you want. What many of our guests do is to have a drink first, maybe a hit of something, and mingle for a while - then they hook up with someone. Of course, you can choose legitimate activities like a sauna or a chess game, but since those can be gotten relatively easily on the outside, most of our guests come here for the other options. It's your fantasy, however; you can make the evening anything you want. Any questions?"

Charlie realized that his mouth was open, and he shut it, looked at her, and shook his head.

"Feel free to browse through the menu," she said, "and then stop by the bar for a drink." She swished off, her hips undulating under the form-fitting evening gown. Charlie's head swiveled back to the screen, and he stared at it dumbly, his heart sinking; then shook himself. He really didn't have a lot of time, and he needed to get as much information as he could. He noticed that the hostess had brought up a screen that contained pictures of the performers – maybe he could get names, something to bring back with him. He punched until he got the screen, and scanned the pictures. There were names underneath, but they appeared to be stage names, single ones at that – names like 'Flower,' 'Star,' and 'Prince.'

He swallowed; he could feel his throat tightening. All of the performers in the acrobatic show were listed – apparently, they were all for sale, even the younger ones. '_They can't be as young as they look_,' he told himself, with a feeling of dawning horror, but as he turned to look around the room, he stood staring, paralyzed with growing revulsion. A heavyset, middle-aged man near him was walking out with a young woman half his age, and a fortyish woman smiled as two young men, both in their early twenties, approached her, and linked arms with her. Another man was walking toward the entrance with a boy that looked about fifteen; the youth was smiling, but his eyes were dead, glazed by despair, drugs, or both.

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked to his right, then down. A girl – she couldn't have been more than ten, looked up at him. She was wearing nothing but a skirt and a tiny halter; and she was made up heavily, with red lipstick and glittering purple eye shadow. "Want to try me, mister?" she said, "You won't be disappointed."

Charlie stared at her in horror, and backed away, then turned and rushed out of the entranceway, half-striding, half-running back down the hall. He darted past the table with the security people, and as he reached the restroom and swiped his card through the scanner with a shaking hand, he saw the hostess step out of the doorway, and stare at him. She motioned to the security guard, and Charlie saw him rise, but he was already pushing his way into the restroom. He had barely made it into a stall before he was bringing up the contents of his stomach, and dimly, even in the depths of his misery, he was aware that he had just provided a good reason for his hasty exit. After a moment, he was aware that the security guard had stepped back outside, and he leaned against the wall of the stall, in a cold sweat.

A door opened and closed; then a familiar voice spoke suddenly from behind him. "Charlie!" said J.T., "I was wondering where you were. Are you not feeling well?"

Charlie was suddenly painfully aware of the gold card that he still clutched in his hand, and he shoved the hand in his pocket, and turned to face J.T. "Actually, no," he admitted;

"I'm afraid something didn't quite agree with me." He tried to muster an apologetic smile, and failed miserably.

J.T. reached out and patted his arm, concern on his face. "Poor boy," he said. "Can I have someone get you something?"

Charlie shook his head. "I'll be okay," he said. "I'll meet you outside." He shut the door of the stall, and leaned against the wall, panting, feeling the sweat evaporating from his skin. He could see J.T.'s feet – he was hesitating, but then the feet moved toward the door, and Charlie heard it open and shut again. He took the gold card from his pocket and hung it by the chain from the hook on the back of the stall door, then pulled his bronze card from his other pocket, and put it around his neck. He flushed the toilet, then stepped out and splashed some cold water on his face, trying not to shudder as an image of the young girl flashed through his mind. Finally, he dried his face, and looked in the mirror. The eyes that stared back at him still resonated with horror, and with an effort, he composed his features, then turned and stepped back out into the hallway that led to the main show room. Cooke and Leach had been right – and it was far worse than anyone had imagined.

**………………………………………………………….**

End, Chapter 19


	20. He Couldn't Know

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 20: He Couldn't Know **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………..**

Very few passengers were on the semi that returned Charlie and J.T. to Safeway®. According to Charlie's watch, it was nearly one a.m. already; but something told him that _Fantasy_ would be going strong until almost dawn. Charlie's stomach churned every time he thought of the child in the _Dreamscape_ room, and he initiated a conversation with J.T., as much to distract himself from the image, as to smooth any ruffled waters that might exist between them. "I'm sorry, J.T. I don't know why you put up with me. Every time you do something kind, and generous, I reward you by becoming ill."

Morrison regarded his current target, and could see that the young man was clearly upset, in addition to not feeling well. The fine lines of pain that crinkled around his eyes, the way his hand absently rubbed at his flat stomach – it was really quite adorable, and J.T. felt himself melting once again. "Nonsense," he reassured, tempted almost beyond reason to pull Charlie into a full embrace of comfort. With effort, he kept his hands to himself – although the one holding the martini shook a little. "It's probably my own fault. You've told me time and again that you don't usually drink to excess, and yet I keep plying you with liquor until I make you ill. _I_ should apologize to _you_!"

Charlie attempted a smile, but was pretty sure it presented more as a grimace. "I'm a grown man, J.T. I'm capable of saying _'No'_." J.T. almost shuddered when he imagined how often he would hear that word from Charlie – and soon, if he had anything to say about it. He missed part of what Charlie was saying, he was so excited. "…unfortunate timing," Eppes was whining. "I worry about my father when he's away on business, and things aren't really as solid as I'd like them to be with Amita right now. Then there's Don, of course." He sighed. "I'm afraid I don't handle stress very well."

J.T. smiled fondly. "Perhaps you could write a sequel to Th_e Attraction Equation_," he suggested. "This time focus on _family_ relationship dynamics."

Charlie snorted. "Not even I have enough math to get a handle on that," he groused, and J.T. laughed.

He raised a hand to summon the attendant. "You should have a ginger ale," he fussed. "I'll ask them to dim the lighting, as well. You can rest until we get back."

Charlie was touched again by his host's thoughtfulness. Surely J.T. had no idea what went on at _Fantasy_. "Thank-you," he murmured, waiting until J.T. related his requests to the girl before he continued. "Have you ever had a silver pass? Or gold?" He thought that J.T. stiffened, and hurried on. "I mean, I just can't imagine what else could go on at that party. The rooms we were allowed to access were unbelievable."

J.T. took a sip of his drink before he answered, almost pensively. "You know, I've wondered that myself. I guess I've never pushed for the next level because I want to believe I could have something more if I wanted it. I need for something to stay just out of reach." He winked at Charlie, and smiled self-depreciatively. "Face it, Charlie; I'm a wealthy, powerful man. I can have whatever I want, at the snap of my fingers." He sighed dramatically. "Sometimes, all I want is a little mystery. A little challenge. For things not to be so easy." He chuckled, feigning embarrassment, and looked away. "Does that make any sense?"

Charlie relaxed just a tad into the comfortable leather, and gratefully accepted the cool ginger ale being pressed into his hand. "Of course it does," he murmured, and allowed himself to feel a modicum of relief. J.T. didn't know.

He couldn't know.

**……………………………………………………..**

A little over five flight-hours away, Amita lay wide-awake in Larry and Megan's guest room and remembered her bedtime confession to her friend. "Charlie doesn't know," she had confided at the end. "He can't know."

A strange expression of disbelief mingled with sadness and sympathy had come over Megan's face. "Are you sure?" she had asked gently. "The Charlie I know is not exactly stupid."

Amita had bristled. "There is nothing for him _to_ know," she protested hotly. "Nothing inappropriate ever happened between Dane and me."

Megan's response was not unkind; nor was it uninformed. "Yet you just sat here, an hour after showing off your engagement ring, and told me that you find yourself almost obsessed with Dr. Rastenbaum."

Amita buried her face in her hands. "I never said _'obsessed'_", she mumbled. "I didn't mean to imply that; I'm tired…nervous about my teaching responsibilities here."

She looked up in time to see Megan sigh. "You've spent more time talking about Dane and describing his…physical attributes…than you have talking about Charlie, Amita. Larry practically had to drag information out of you about his best friend; your fiancé. _Obsessed_ might be my word, but I stand by its accuracy."

Tears of regret and despair sprang to Amita's eyes and she lowered her head again. "I'll fix it," she whispered to her feet. "Charlie doesn't know. He couldn't know."

**……………………………………………………..**

Don virtually ignored Agents Cooke and Leach, and tapped his fingers impatiently on the conference room table.

It was 3 a.m., and whatever happened at the mysterious party had freaked Charlie out so much that he couldn't wait a few hours for the planned Sunday-morning debriefing. He had gotten in touch with Cooke, and Cooke had called Don: The debriefing had to be now. Tonight.

Not knowing about Charlie's shattered cell, and having no idea that his little brother had called Cooke from a roadside pay phone, Don was a little miffed that he hadn't gotten his own call. Once Don had rolled Robin over and told her to go back to sleep, he had grabbed his clothes off the chair near the bed and slipped out of the dark room as quietly as possible. He had dressed hurriedly in the bathroom, and when he had felt the bulk of his cell phone in the pocket of his jeans, Don had called Charlie for a more personalized update. When the call had gone directly to voice mail, he had sworn so loudly he undid all of his good intentions, and woke Robin.

He and the other agents had arrived at the Bureau at the same time, just a few minutes before, and now they ignored each other while they waited for Charlie to join them.

Cooke sipped at the insipid coffee he had purchased from a machine in the break room and surreptitiously studied the fuming Eppes. Leach was probably right; if this man ever found out that he had blackmailed his little brother into this little undercover assignment, Cooke would be history. He shivered slightly and reassured himself that Eppes didn't know.

He couldn't know.

**……………………………………………………..**

Charlie stepped off the elevator nearly twenty minutes after everyone else. Cooke, Leach, and Don were milling around the conference table, checking their watches, when Don finally heard running footsteps approaching the conference room. He looked toward the door in time to see it burst open. The appearance of his disheveled brother literally knocked Don off his feet, and he sank into the nearest chair, eyes glued on Charlie – pale, eyes wide and dilated, hair a wild halo around his head. "I'm sorry it took me so long," Charlie gasped, breathing hard. "I had some trouble finding another cab; the first one wouldn't wait for me at the pay phone."

Don was walking around the end of the table before he realized he was on his feet. "Cab? You didn't drive yourself? And what pay phone?" He latched onto Charlie's forearm, needing to feel the solidity of his brother's body. "Did they hurt you? Are you all right?"

If Charlie was surprised at Don's concern, considering their last conversation, he didn't show it. Instead, he used his free hand to push at his unruly hair and looked with frantic eyes over Don's shoulder, at Agent Cooke. "You've got to get someone out there, now! The party is still going on, I know it is. If you, if you send someone to the pick-up point, you can, you can, arrest the driver. Force - force him to take you there. It's somewhere in the desert, I think. Hurry!"

Don pulled and pushed at Charlie until he was sitting in a chair. The F.B.I. agent had been nursing a bottle of water while he waited, and now he reached across the table and grabbed it. He pulled another chair around until he could sit next to his brother, and put the bottle physically into Charlie's hand. "Take a breath, Buddy. Calm down, drink some water."

Leach started walking, heading for the door, and was stopped by Cooke's voice. "Where do you think _you're_ going?"

Leach stopped; turned. "To request back-up?"

Cooke shook his head. "Everybody just slow it down! We've been investigating this for almost six months, and we're not going to screw it up now by acting before we have all the information!" He sat down opposite Charlie and leaned forward over the table. "What kind of security is there? Will they see us coming? Is there a high-level communications system, so that a lookout could notify everybody else before we even go to the pick-up point?"

The bottle of water dropped from Charlie's nerveless fingers, and rolled under the table. He looked desperately at Don. "There are _children_! Don…"

Don frowned, unhappy to be placed in a position that required agreement with Agent Cooke. "He's right, Charlie," he finally mumbled. "This isn't the movies, we can't just charge over the hilltops like the Cavalry. You have to tell us what happened. All of it."

Charlie groaned as if in physical pain and leaned over, his head almost hitting the top of the table. Don's big brother instincts took over again. "Are you sure you're all right? Why didn't you drive yourself here?"

To his dismay, Charlie banged his forehead twice on the table before he whipped his head up and looked at him again, his eyes glistening with tears. "I tried," he moaned, "but I dropped my keys somewhere in the yard, and I broke my cell phone, so I had to go back into the house to call for a cab, and the door was locked, so I broke into the garage to get the spare, but then I remembered that we disconnected the landline last month and, and I had to walk until I could hail a taxi at 2 in the fucking morning, and…"

The pitch of his voice and the speed of his delivery were both rising in intensity – not to mention certain uncharacteristic vocabulary. Don reached out to grip the back of Charlie's neck in a firm grasp. "Okay," he assured calmly, "it's okay. I'll take you home, and we'll find the keys." He began to massage Charlie's neck gently, afraid that his brother was going to hyperventilate. "Take a breath, Charlie," he soothed, and then he summoned the agent inside again. "Take a breath – and then tell us everything that happened tonight. All of it."

**……………………………………………………..**

"I'm sure J.T. doesn't know about the back rooms," Charlie concluded. "He couldn't know."

Don sat grimly beside his brother. What Charlie had described was horrible – he would have a hard time witnessing that, and he was an experienced agent. He was also an experienced brother, and it bothered him to no end knowing what Cooke was about to suggest. They were going to send Charlie in again, he just knew it. Belatedly, he caught the reluctant quality of Charlie's voice.

Cooke started to say something, but Don interrupted him, leaning forward in his chair a little. "Who are you trying to convince?" he asked. "Us, or yourself?"

Charlie sighed, and met Don's eyes with his own for a moment before he pushed his chair back from the table and stood, somewhat shakily. "He said something," he admitted, so quietly that it was difficult to hear. "He made a comment about 'bagels for breakfast'. The Saturday morning I was at his house, I didn't have any breakfast, and that's the only time we've been together early in the day – so at first I didn't think it was a personal jab. How could he know what I eat for breakfast? I didn't remember until the cab ride tonight – I came here this week, with a bag of bagels to share with Don for breakfast." He swallowed, refusing to look at anyone, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I think maybe he has someone watching me. Or an informant here in the Bureau."

Silence greeted his statement. The two halves of Don's personality fought it out internally – he wanted to defend the integrity of the office, yet at the same time wanted to kill everyone in it himself, if one of them was endangering his brother; even if it was Colby, or David. He stood; mind made up, and crossed his arms over his chest. "That's it," he stated unequivocally. "Charlie's out. He went to your damn party, and got you some more to work with – take what you can get," He turned to face Charlie, who was looking at him a tad strangely. "Chuck, you're not going to see this guy again. That's it."

A myriad of emotions, not all of which Don could read, passed over Charlie's face before he looked at Agent Cooke. Cooke spread his hands and shrugged, narrowing his eyes a little. "Your brother appears to be an adult, Agent Eppes. I would hope he is a man who honors his commitments…and I strongly suspect he makes his own decisions. He sent that e-mail to Pakistan, after all." The ghost of a smile played at his lips as he looked up to regard Don. "Unless, of course, you knew about it?" Leach was quietly studying his shoes, not saying a word – but he seemed to wince when Cooke made his thinly-veiled accusation.

A low sound remarkably akin to a growl came from Don, and Charlie jumped in before his brother had time to get his hands around Cooke's neck. "Stop it!" he shouted, leaning to bang his fist on the table. Cooke's languid eyes slid in his direction and Charlie repeated himself. "Stop. It." He straightened, shaking his hand slightly – he had hit the tabletop harder than he intended – and swiveled his head to look at Don. "Both of you." Don's eyes were still flashing in anger, and Charlie gentled his voice, unconsciously wheedling his brother. "Donny, we don't even know that it will be an issue. There's no guarantee that J.T. will go out of his way to get me another pass – I practically threw up all over him, and I seem to end up doing that every time he includes me in one of his parties."

"That should be a sign that this life doesn't agree with you," mumbled Don, and Charlie just swallowed and kept his mouth shut.

Nearly everyone was surprised when Leach suddenly joined the conversation; it was easy to forget he was in the room. "Dr. Eppes is correct. He may not get another invitation. I think he should work with one of our sketch artist programs, maybe look at the missing persons database; try to identify some of the people he saw there tonight. Either the performers, or the audience."

Cooke was not prepared to acquiesce entirely. "That makes sense," he admitted grudgingly. "Tomorrow is a school holiday, correct? You can devote some time to those tasks?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes. I just have to go to the store and get a new phone, sometime."

Cooke nodded; then rose to his feet with an air of authority. "I think we should deal with the potential threat, just in case. If someone in this office is reporting back to your 'Mr. X', we need to set up some sort of public disagreement between you two."

"Are you sure that's necessary?" Charlie asked. "We've pretty much been publicly disagreeing for months." Don's head whipped around, and Charlie lowered his eyes to the table, embarrassed. He couldn't believe he had said that out loud.

Cooke suppressed a sneer and drove his point home. "It's a good idea to put on a show, even if the audience isn't here. We're still not sure if you were tailed or if there's a Bureau leak. Leach and I will bring some sketch software to your home tomorrow. We can use one of our passwords to get you into the MP database; that way you won't be seen going into any of our offices." He glanced at Don, matching Eppes' steely glare with one of his own. "You two cook something up…say, mid-day on Wednesday, or Thursday. An altercation in the bullpen."

Charlie was still staring at the table, refusing to look at Don. "I have a tentative lunch set up with Colby on Thursday," he offered. "I have a couple of hours between classes."

"Perfect," smiled Cooke. "You set up your cover before you even knew you'd need one. Perfect."

"Just peachy," grumbled Don, spinning on his heel and starting for the door. "We'll talk about it on the way home. Come on, Charlie."

Charlie started to follow, but his feet were stayed by Agent Cooke. "Better not," he warned. "Someone could be watching the house." He unclipped a cell phone from the waistband of his jeans. "I know you have no phone, Professor; I'll call you a cab. You should stop briefly and pick something up -- anything -- so it looks like you had a reason to go out at this time of night."

Don stopped in the doorway, incredulous. '_I wonder if that asshole knows just how badly I want to wipe that smirk right off his face?'_ he thought, staring daggers at Agent Cooke. Charlie raised his eyes briefly to shrug apologetically at Don, looking about as miserable as Don had ever seen him. Don's gut clenched and he made a decision when he looked at Cooke again. _Nah_, he thought, _he doesn't know._

_He couldn't know._

**……………………………………………………..**

End, Chapter 20


	21. Retrospect Redux

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 21: Retrospect Redux**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………..**

Charlie's intention was to call Amita as soon as he got home with his new phone Monday -- but apparently, a few other customers had the day off as well, and it took much longer than he anticipated to complete his business at the cellular franchise. By the time he got back to the Craftsman at 10:30, Cooke and Leach were already waiting.

He spent the next several hours working with them. Their sketch artist software was a joke, but Charlie did what he could to the code to bump it up a notch. After manhandling the laptop away from Leach, Charlie was able to create sketches that at least resembled the man who had taken his wallet; the hostess in the back of the semi -- as well as the one working in _Dreamscape_. Then they went on to the man he had seen J.T. talking to – although there was not much he could offer – the man's face had been in shadow, and Charlie only had a vague impression of his features. Finally, he generated a drawing of the young girl who had offered herself to him. His experience with the child still had him shaken, and he spent several hours searching the Missing Person and Amber Alert databases for missing children; suspected runaways, or kidnapping victims. He couldn't believe that the girl's parents weren't frantic somewhere, and he almost made himself sick with renewed worry by the time Cooke called an end to the session at almost 6 p.m. Charlie was exhausted, and unhappy with his efforts -- he had not been able to locate the girl or anyone else from the party in assorted databases, and the more he looked at the sketches, the more convinced he was that they were inadequate -- but he quickly settled on the couch and called Amita, before it grew too late in D.C.

It took several rings for her to answer, and she did somewhat formally, not recognizing the number displayed by her Caller I.D. Still, Charlie smiled at the sound of her voice. "Sweetheart, it's me! Have you been trying to call? I'm sorry; I managed to break my cell on Friday. I had to get a replacement today -- this is my new number."

There was a pause as Amita digested all that. "They wouldn't let you keep the old one?" she finally asked.

"They offered," Charlie admitted, "but that would have taken even longer. Besides, I've been getting too many solicitation calls lately; I decided to start fresh." He changed the subject. "How are you? How's Larry? Megan?"

He thought he detected a small sigh on Amita's part - but it could have been the connection. "They love it here - they're very happy. I've been busy, trying to prepare my lectures. I'm actually at the Georgetown Blommer Science Library tonight; I decided to give them some time to themselves. That's why it took me so long to answer; I had to step into the restroom, so I could talk."

Charlie frowned. "Larry's letting you cavort around D.C. unescorted at night?"

Amita chuckled dryly. "The library does not equal 'cavorting', Charlie -- and he made me take a cab, and promise to take another one back to their place."

Charlie still wasn't entirely happy, but decided to change the subject. "Did you get a lot done this weekend? Dane made his flight back today?"

Amita hesitated. "Actually, he left early yesterday. I'm sure he's home by now."

Charlie furrowed his brow in confusion. "Was there a problem? I thought the long weekend was the whole point of scheduling this trip now!"

"I think it...just turned out to be...more than he bargained for," she answered evasively. "We all decided; Dane won't be part of the project anymore. Larry and I are going to try webinars to supplement our e-mail communication." Charlie was stunned. He had no idea Rastenbaum wanted out. Before he could think of a response, Amita redirected the conversation. "How about your party?" She sounded slightly offended by the subject.

Charlie rubbed his forehead and took his own turn at evasion. "It was all right," he said. "I'm not sure I'll be invited again - I was one of the first people to leave. I think you and Don may be right; this isn't really my crowd."

Amita's tone warmed slightly. "Well. Since Dane and I won't be working together on Friday nights anymore, you and I can start spending more time together."

"I'd like that," Charlie smiled. "We have a wedding to plan, after all."

Amita grew almost imperceptibly frosty again. "Listen, Charlie, they're dimming the lights; the library is closing. I'll put your new number in memory and call soon, all right?" Before Charlie really comprehended what was happening, the call was as disconnected as he was starting to feel.

A little over five hours to the East, Amita leaned against the restroom wall and closed her eyes against the harsh light, and hoped beyond hope that Charlie didn't Google® the Blommer Science Library. If he did, he would find out that it closed at 11 p.m. - which was still two hours away.

**.............................................................................................**

Charlie's next call was to J.T.

He apologized again for becoming ill Saturday night, and gave the man his new phone number.

"You have impeccable timing," Morrison noted. "I'll be leaving in the morning to spend several days in San Francisco. I'm wooing a novelist, trying to option his book for a screen treatment. My sources inform me that other studios are now involved, so I anticipate some unwelcome competition. I do hate this part of the job," he sighed. "I may not be back until Sunday, so I'm cancelling this Friday's party."

Charlie's heart fell. He wasn't so much disturbed by the prospect of missing out on one of J.T.'s parties as he was by the fact that his friend didn't even mention not being available for a repeat trip to _Fantasy_. Charlie wanted to help Cooke and Leach nail this Mr. X - not just for his clearance; not even just for Don's career. He wanted any man capable of doing what he was doing to other human beings - to children! - to rot in prison for the rest of his life. "I understand," Charlie answered, sounding so despondent that J.T. was nearly brought to orgasm on the spot.

Morrison discovered that he needed to get off the phone to take care of some rather...urgent...business. Once he had dealt with his own physical needs, he would start calling Markus, pressuring him for passes to the _Stairway of Heaven_; he would surely die if he didn't get his hands on Eppes soon. "I'll speak to you when I get back," he promised before disconnecting.

_I've screwed up pretty much everything_, Charlie was left thinking.

.**.........................................................................**

He stepped into the kitchen for a beer before his third call. He sipped at the brew while he waited for Don to answer, and nearly choked on a mouthful of suds when he did.

Charlie coughed into the phone. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I just called to give you my new number."

"I thought you'd keep the old one," Don answered.

Charlie sighed. Not wanting to explain again, he instead began to speak about their upcoming altercation. "Listen, I'm not sure how much good this 'fight' is going to do. J.T. will be out of town all week."

Don grunted. "I thought you believed Morrison to be ignorant, anyway. We'd better follow through; if someone is watching, they could report directly to Mr. X."

Charlie bristled. "Look, I know you don't agree..."

Don interrupted him. "No, I don't, Charlie. There are things you and I should just not talk about, and your clearance needs to be added to that list. I'm still your brother, and we need to agree to disagree on this one."

Charlie blinked back tired and angry tears, and almost told Don the real reason he was working for Cooke and Leach. Instead he heard himself asking, "List? What else won't you talk to me about?"

Don sighed. "Let's not do this, Charlie."

Of course, that statement assured that Charlie would 'do this'. "What?" he demanded again.

"Maybe 'list' was the wrong word," Don answered. "Right now I can only think of the _'P vs. NP'_ months."

Charlie's gasp was audible. "We don't talk about that because you're still angry? I thought it was because you understood!"

"I understand more than I used to," Don countered. "That doesn't mean I fully understand." Charlie accepted that statement in stunned silence. At length, Don felt he had to give his little brother a little something more. "Look," he continued in a more gentle tone of voice, "this is just how I deal with things. Maybe later, I'll understand more about why clearance means so much to you." Charlie was still silent, so Don hurried on. "I talked to A.D. Wright. He says the fight should have a physical aspect - he says if we're gonna do it, we want as many people gossiping about it as possible. He's even planning on publicly suspending me after I drop your scrawny ass."

Charlie was just going for another mouthful of beer, and now he spit it back into the bottle - and all over the kitchen table. "I beg your pardon?"

He could tell that Don was grinning. "Come on; everybody will expect me to win. I'm older than you, bigger than you, more trained in combat techniques than you. I'll try to pull my punch, dude, but it's got to look real. I'll shove you around a little, but then you have to remember to duck." His tone became serious. "Bring your arms up; protect your face."

_This is just getting better and better_, thought Charlie. Aloud he admitted impending defeat. "Wonderful. I'm supposed to meet Colby at one."

"I'll try to arrange my own lunch hour so I'm coming back to the office when you get there," planned Don. "We can ride up in the elevator together and then -- it's showtime. I'll let Wright know when to be ready."

"Absolutely," answered Charlie drily. "Wright should be ready."

Don laughed briefly. "Chuck," he reminded before disconnecting, "just don't forget to duck."

**...................................................**

In retrospect, Don knew that he had gone too far. Sitting glumly in the break room, ignoring a cup of coffee, he could even pinpoint the moment he had crossed the line.

His mind drifted back to that point in time, just moments before. He'd met Charlie in the parking garage for a little pre-fight planning, and found his brother in a disgruntled mood.

"_I don't even know why we're doing this," Charlie grumbled. "I haven't heard from J.T. all week – he more than likely has completely forgotten about me. My chances of getting an invitation back there are next to none."_

_Don grunted. "And that would suit me just fine."_

_Charlie glared at him and Don could sense he was spoiling for a quarrel. Charlie could be moody, and sometimes argumentative, but his idea of fighting usually was to reason his opponent into a corner; in fact, Don remembered more than once trying, unsuccessfully, to goad him into a fight, and getting nothing but a lecture. Occasionally, however, Charlie would get into a mood so prickly, that a fight, a real fight, was inevitable, and he appeared to be of that mindset right now. That, Don thought to himself, was nothing less than ideal; if he worked this right, he could prod Charlie into a dispute that would look believable in the office. He jabbed at the elevator button, and said coolly, "I think you ought to back out of this anyway. Let's face it; you're not cut out for it." _

_The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped on, Don caught a satisfying glimpse of Charlie's eyes, flashing fire. He felt an inexplicable desire to argue rising inside him – months of pent up anger and irritation were coming out of nowhere – generated by what? His hurt feelings over Charlie's cavalier email to Pakistan? The fact that Charlie's new quest to regain his clearance had apparently nothing to do with Don? He couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't even consciously try. For the past several weeks they'd been arguing, off and on, little jabs that spoke of an underlying agenda that was simmering below the surface, waiting to explode._

_The elevator doors closed, and Don looked sideways at Charlie. His brother's jaw was set in a stubborn line, and his eyes were directed straight ahead, boring into the keypad. "We should have rehearsed this, Charlie."_

_Charlie's voice was tight. "What's to rehearse? You think I can't handle this, you've made that pretty clear."_

_Don scowled. "I didn't mean it that way."_

_Charlie snorted derisively as Don glared at him and punched a button; stopping the elevator between floors. "This isn't a game, okay? I'd think twice about sending a seasoned agent into this."_

_Charlie finally turned to look at him, his eyes snapping. "__You__ aren't sending me anywhere. I'm taking an assignment from the DEA. You aren't controlling this operation, and you might as well come to grips with that." _

_Don fought down a boiling surge of anger, and spoke, his lips tight. "We still should have figured out what we're going to say, here."_

_Charlie jabbed the button and the elevator started moving again. He shrugged impatiently. "I'll hold up my end. You're the 'seasoned agent.' I'm sure you can manage to make it believable. Just say what you really think."_

_"Fine," snapped Don. "Let's at least agree on this - I'm going to throw a punch at some point. I'll give you plenty of notice; just be prepared to duck, or to block it."_

_"Yeah, whatever."_

_The door opened, and Charlie stepped off the elevator, heading toward the bullpen, with an impatient stride. Don paused for a second; then followed; the angry set to his jaw and shoulders didn't need to be faked. "All right, Chuck," he said to himself. "You want to run with the big dogs; then here goes." _

**…………………………………..**

He sighed, and contemplated his coffee cup. Contrary to how it might appear, he had pushed the envelope long before he broke his brother's nose. In the truth of hindsight, he knew he had broken something more important the instant the words flew out of his mouth.

_You're an arrogant ass, Charlie, and it's time you understood that this office does not revolve around you, any more than the world does. I'm sorry that I ever agreed to let you consult on your first case. I'm sorry you were ever born!_

He had seen the flash of hurt when those last words rolled off his tongue. Undeniable, even if Charlie hadn't lost his place in the tableau, forgetting to duck or even attempt to block Don's blow. His fist had crashed into Charlie's face, and Don had almost passed out himself at the _crack_ heard 'round the bullpen. Blood had spattered back onto his own face, and he had withdrawn bruised knuckles to stare at them in horror.

Charlie had grunted and dropped to his knees. Don had felt someone – later, it turned out to be David -- pulling him back, and made a half-hearted attempt to struggle. He watched Colby rush to Charlie's side, and wanted to cry out how sorry he was, push him away and take his place. Things had gone horribly wrong, miserably wrong, permanently wrong.

They should have had a script. They had talked about a general direction for the disagreement to take, but Charlie had refused to rehearse, and Don had let him get away with that. A real agent would have been prepared, he told himself with disgust. A real leader would have taken charge, would have forced the issue, no matter what Charlie thought. Instead, he'd let them both walk into a disaster.

Don had no idea where that phrase had come from. _I wish you had never been born._ He hadn't said that to Charlie since he was seven years old. His mother had overheard him and he had spent the next two weeks grounded every afternoon after school. Every day he had to write a paper for her: One reason he was glad Charlie was his brother. He still remembered some of them. The first, _"I gots the only liddle bruther that kin do all my homewurk fer Mrs. Angel."_ Mrs. Angel was his math teacher, and that paper had persuaded Margaret to have a little talk with her. Don's work had mysteriously doubled, and she started making him stay in at recess to complete the assignments.

A throat cleared behind him, and Don recognized Sinclair. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, to hide his face. He had to do this. He couldn't let the other agent suspect. Besides, he needed to stick around the office long enough for the rumor mill to rev up and reach warp speed; long enough for Wright to come down to the bullpen and publicly suspend his ass.

"Don…are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? Colby just called, and the plastic surgeon on duty is going to check Charlie's nose. I could give you a ride."

Don set down the coffee mug and snickered. "Did him a favor," he said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "He should have had a nose job years ago."

He felt David shift behind him. "Isn't your dad still out of town? Maybe Charlie shouldn't be alone, tonight."

Don clutched the mug and hoped Sinclair didn't see his knuckles turning white. They had thought it good timing, that their father was off on his visit to their Aunt Irene in Santa Barbara. They wouldn't have to worry about Alan finding out what was going on, or fretting over something that wasn't real. Things had suddenly taken on a shocking reality, though, and now Charlie was hurt. He would be in pain, and he would go home alone, and Don could not go to help him. Even if it killed him. "He's got friends," he grumbled, and he succeeded in making himself feel even worse. Amita and that…that professor guy, the one who had taken over the bulk of Larry's Hoggs boson research…they had squeezed in a quick trip to D.C. to meet with Larry, but they were supposed to be back by now. At least that had been the plan, but Millie had called a few days ago asking after Alan, and had mentioned how busy Charlie had been, helping to cover Amita's classes since she was staying on at Georgetown for a few weeks. Surely, Colby would at least ask Charlie if he should call Amita or something, and figure it out? Damn.

Don took another sip of coffee and was glad when it burned all the way down his throat.

He deserved it.

**………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 21


	22. Someone to Watch over Me

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 22: ****Someone to Watch Over Me**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………..**

It was all so unexpected; Charlie was left in a state of semi-shock.

He understood that Don was not happy with him. He had never made peace with Charlie losing his clearance the way he did, and earlier in the week he had admitted to still holding a grudge over their mother's death four years before. That admission had stunned Charlie, but not nearly as much as the words Don had thrown at him in the bullpen that afternoon: _I wish you had never been born._

They had rolled off Don's tongue so naturally, so easily. The fight was supposed to be staged, but no-one could say a thing like that with such conviction if it weren't just a little true. Charlie had been caught completely off-guard, and left totally unprepared for the right hook that followed.

The nasal fracture hadn't hurt nearly as badly as the words.

Still, the pain had nearly blinded him and he had dropped like a stone in the bullpen, blood spurting all the hell over the place. Colby had taken him to the ER, where an over-eager plastic surgery resident had wanted to twist his swollen, misaligned schnoz back into place. The young woman had eventually been overruled by her attending, who reminded her that they could afford to wait a few days for the swelling to subside before attempting a closed reduction. In the end, the attending had given Charlie a tiny envelope containing three days' worth of Vicodin®, packed his nostrils with saline-moistened gauze, slapped him on the shoulder and told him to come back to the ER if the bleeding continued too long or became more severe; otherwise, he should just see his own physician in a few days.

As if Charlie needed his day to get any worse, Colby was summoned to a crime scene about the time they were finally leaving the hospital. He had brought the vehicle around to pick up Charlie at the ER entrance.

Charlie could see that the agent was talking on his cell, so he opened the passenger door to let himself in. He lowered himself carefully to the seat only to hear Colby's quiet growl. "Get out, Charlie."

Charlie turned surprised, raccoon eyes to his friend. "Huh?"

Colby swore, looking at Charlie. "I'm sorry, dude. That was David. I have to meet him at a warehouse over in East L.A. – the ATF is calling us in. They found a cache of weapons, two DBs." He looked away, guilt making him defensive even though Charlie had not said anything else. "You know we're short already, without Megan. Wright came down and suspended Don for hitting you, so it's just me and Dave. I gotta take this call, man. I can't leave him hangin' without back-up."

Charlie had put his hand on the door handle and nodded his head – an action he immediately regretted. "Ah unnerstan," he had assured his friend. "Uh'll call a cab."

Colby winced at the sound of Charlie's voice in combination with the shell-shocked look that hadn't left his face since his own brother had cold-cocked him. "I've got it dude; just wait on that bench over there. Anybody else you want me to call? Amita, maybe? Already talked to Millie, and she cancelled your last class today, and is making arrangements to cover tomorrow's; she said you should take the day…"

Charlie had shaken his head miserably and almost imperceptibly, climbing out of the sedan and shuffling over to the sidewalk bench outside the hospital ER. Colby had apologized again and driven away.

Now, standing in his bathroom after having just removed the packing from his nose, Charlie supposed he was lucky Colby had kept his word and called a cab for him. The taxi had shown up about twenty minutes later. Once delivered home, Charlie had swallowed two of the Vicodin® and fallen asleep in a sitting position on the couch, where he remained for two hours – just long enough to develop a serious kink in his neck. When he started awake, he had made his way up the stairs to the bathroom.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror. His nose was definitely too swollen for any misalignment to be apparent – but at least it had stopped bleeding. There was bruising all over the surface of his nose, extending up his face toward his eyes. He looked as if he had been crying purple paint. He looked, Charlie thought, as if he should be lying down.

He jerked a little, wincing, when the cell clipped to the waistband of his jeans sounded. His heart leapt before he could stop it. Had Don found a way to call, and check up on him? Had someone called Amita after all, and she was calling to see if he was all right?

Charlie grabbed frantically at the phone, suddenly needing to feel as if he was the object of someone's – anyone's – concern, as badly as he had ever needed anything. The caller I.D. showed only that it was a "restricted number", and Charlie almost didn't answer. It was a testament to his despondence when he finally decided that even a wrong number was better than being ignored.

"Hullo?"

A breath of what could only be called relief. "Charlie, thank God. It's J.T. How are you?"

Charlie answered automatically. "M'fine. Are you back?"

Morrison's tone became businesslike; almost clipped. "No, no, I'm calling from San Francisco. Charlie, you remember Jeanne? You've met her at my parties…. Anyway, the dear girl just phoned. Seems she slipped while modeling poolside, sprained her ankle. She was in the Cedars-Sinai ER this afternoon and swears that she saw you there."

Charlie was suddenly wide awake. He had been in some serious pain and shock while at the ER – but he certainly had no memory of seeing any other patient there who could have been a swimsuit model. He wished he could double-check with Colby; if there was a beautiful woman in the vicinity, Granger would surely have noticed. "Uh…" he stalled. _Was there really a leak in Don's office? Had J.T. heard about the fight? _

His friend pushed for details. "Were you really there, Charlie, or did the poor thing take too much pain medication?"

Charlie swallowed before going through with the plan. "Dond brok by node."

J.T. paused. "Don?" he finally asked. "Your brother?"

Charlie nodded, even though J.T. could not see him. "We 'ad a fighd."

Morrison clucked. "Charlie, that's absolutely incomprehensible. Your brother physically assaulted you?"

Charlie closed his eyes. "I tink 'e's been suspend...suspendendend…suspennn…" He sighed, frustrated.

"Suspended?" guessed J.T. "I should hope so. Charlie, who's with you now?"

_As if you didn't know_, thought Charlie bitterly. "Dohwund," he answered aloud, "Everywund is outta townd."

J.T. spoke brusquely. "Charlie, I want you to pack a bag. I'm sending Ramon to pick you up and take you back to the estate." Charlie started to protest, but Morrison just kept talking. "I have staff there who can attend to your needs over the next few days," he insisted. "My personal physician will come to examine you tomorrow. God only knows what those quacks at the hospital did – or didn't do. I wish I could come home early, Charlie, but I'm stuck here until after brunch Sunday."

Charlie tried to think it through. If J.T. was just learning about the staged fight for the first time, his generosity was again touching – and a weekend surrounded by staff was more appealing than a weekend alone and hurting in the Craftsman. On the other hand, a weekend at the estate should provide ample opportunity for Charlie to look around. Perhaps he could prove, once and for all, that J.T. knew more about Mr. X and _Fantasy_ than he had implied.

"Yer too kind," he murmured, and J.T, smiled broadly in San Francisco.

"Not at all," he assured his future paramour. "Make yourself at home, and stay as long as you need. _Mi casa es su casa_."

Charlie regarded his raccoon eyes solemnly in the mirror. "_Gracias_."

**…………………………………………………………………**

Don was beside himself.

He had been unable to obtain much solid information. He could not appear too concerned in front of David or Colby; they would figure out something was up. Wright had called him once since the public suspension. He confirmed that Charlie's nose was broken, and that was about all.

Don was even avoiding Robin, so that it would appear to anyone who was looking that he was out of control. He had told her about the plan, of course; the rumors would no doubt fly as far as the D.A.'s office, and she needed to be ready to feign outrage and shock. Now, he cursed himself for not thinking of asking her to check on Charlie tonight, since his brother would be alone.

Of course, breaking his nose had not been part of the genius plan hatched by Agent Cooke.

If only Don could break Cooke's nose, instead.

If only he could take back what he said: _I wish you had never been born._

If only he could rewind time, so that he never had to see that expression of hurt and betrayal in his brother's eyes.

If only he could risk a call to Charlie; make him believe that he didn't mean it. Any of it.

He gripped the cut-glass tumbler of Jack so hard he almost broke it with his bare hand, and stopped in his pacing of the living room long enough to kick at the couch. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he whispered. "Buddy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

**…………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie zipped up his bag and straightened - a little too quickly, and the room whirled around him. The bout of dizziness passed quickly, but it reinforced his decision to take J.T. up on his offer. Maybe the dizziness was just from the Vicodin®, but no matter what was causing it, it probably wasn't a good idea to stay home alone, he told himself.

It was simply justification, and he knew it, but the truth was; he didn't want to be by himself. Alone, he had too much time to think about the dark concepts submerged just under the surface, too much time to reflect on the fact that the brother he'd idolized since he was small had never really wanted him around. He'd suspected as much when he was younger, but he'd been hoping, ever since they started working together, that things had changed – that they'd developed a real relationship. That had turned out to be a sham, apparently – a pipe dream that had crumbled under the stress of losing his clearance, and then his recent attempts to get it back. Initially, he'd been in such shock from the blow that the full impact of the words hadn't hit him emotionally, but now the realization was starting to make itself felt. It shook him more than he wanted to admit, and he was desperate for a diversion, and maybe a kindly word – something that made him feel he wasn't completely unlovable. He actually found himself missing J.T.

The ride in the limo was quiet and uneventful – Ramon was another person who didn't like him; Charlie was well aware of that, although he wasn't sure why. After an initial flicker of interest in the beautiful young man's dark eyes as he took in Charlie's bruised face, his normal expression whenever he was around Charlie returned – patent dislike, thinly veiled by feigned disinterest. Charlie didn't care; he put his head back on the headrest in the back seat, and allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the Vicodin®.

Eventually, he found himself established in one of the estate's most luxurious guest bedrooms, and shortly afterward, at the pool, where he continued his nap in a comfortable lounge chair. There were a few others there – apparently, J.T. had other houseguests in his absence, but Charlie didn't recognize any of them; and after a brief glance, they ignored him. Charlie pulled the lounge chair around to face away from them; he couldn't breathe out of his nose, and didn't want to drool in front of the guests if he fell asleep. _When_ he fell asleep, he corrected himself. He was certain that the Vicodin® wouldn't make staying awake an option. So it was that when Amita called, then Larry, he didn't answer. He was sound asleep in the California sun.

**…………………………………………..**

Markus squinted against the afternoon sun, and surveyed the complex. It was a private ranch, surrounded by guard dogs and electric fence, well away from the sprawling L.A. landscape. It was here that he housed what he and his partner Elaina called the 'cast,' although in truth, they were slaves; kidnapped when young and trained to be performers at _Fantasy_. The acrobatic show had been Elaina's idea – she had a cousin who had been a Russian gymnast and coach, and the group had started out small – a tiny band of acrobats, all of them illegal aliens from Russia, who performed for chic Hollywood parties. Along the way, they'd found that while the acrobatic performance won raves, the offers for sex afterward were more lucrative. Some of the performers were willing to expand their routine to the bedroom, but others weren't, and soon departed the group. Markus and Elaina were left with the sticky problem of finding enough performers for a growing business.

That was when Elaina's cousin Boris, who had already proven himself a valuable coach, made himself indispensable. He tapped into contacts in the Russian mob and the international slave trade. Markus used all the money he had at the time to buy a group of slaves and the compound to house them, plus a handful of abandoned warehouses, and a small shipping company – for its fleet of six semis. It had paid off handsomely, resulting in the birth of _Fantasy_, and Markus and Elaina were now very rich people, even in a land of the ultra-wealthy. Elaina ran the back rooms at _Fantasy_; she was good at it. She had a dark, kinky streak of her own and taken that part of the business into realms that Markus would never have dreamt of, himself.

Markus ran the logistics of it all, with a staff primarily made up of Russian mafia that doubled as bouncers on performance nights; and prison wardens during the week at the complex. Here, the cast was housed and fed. The acrobats rehearsed their gymnastics routines once daily, and were rewarded with heroin afterwards. A regimen of brainwashing and drugs kept them compliant, and clueless. Not all of them were gymnasts; some had been chosen for their looks, and were used exclusively in the back rooms. Most of them couldn't even remember a life outside _Fantasy,_ and the ones who did were afraid to admit it, and even more afraid to try to escape.

It was a risky venture, but by being careful, Markus had been able to keep it, if not secret, at least away from the law. The patrons who frequented the events had no wish to make their participation public, and careful background checks vetted the riskier prospective clients, weeding out those who were potential threats. As Markus stood there watching a fourteen-year old boy perfect an aerial, his mind drifted to one of those clients – Charles Eppes.

He had to admit, on the surface; Charlie Eppes seemed to be who J.T. Morrison said he was – a young man with a reputation to uphold, yet on the wrong side of the law, a man apparently at odds with those closest to him. In short, a perfect candidate for J.T. to isolate, to subject to his sordid schemes. Agent Timmons had reported to Markus on the fight between the Eppes brothers at the office, and Markus had to admit, they didn't seem be working together – hell, they probably weren't even speaking after that row. As a result, he had promised J.T. that the next time he attended _Fantasy_; he would grant Charlie the coveted gold pass. Still, there was something about this that he didn't quite like. He had warned J.T. that he was playing with fire, and that if Markus caught a whiff of anything suspicious, J.T.'s precious young man would be a dead young man.

His eyes narrowed as the boy ran across the mat and flung himself into the air in an aerial, his head skimming so close to the mat that his short hair brushed it. He landed on his feet, grinning, not realizing how close he had come to breaking his neck. The performers would do anything for a little extra hit, Markus thought, despising them for their weakness. He grunted with derision, and turned for the house.

**……………………………………........................**

End Chapter 22


	23. Point of No Return

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 23: Point of No Return **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Charlie stared at the sunlight glinting off the pool, and sighed. The remainder of the week had meandered by; painfully at first, with a house visit by J.T.'s plastic surgeon friend on Saturday. The man had reduced the fracture, aligning Charlie's nose again right there in the guest bedroom, and had appeared quite pleased with the result, telling Charlie that he had just gotten a nose job for free. Charlie's nose had always been too big for his face, and had a definite curve to it. The size obviously hadn't been reduced, but the doctor told him that when his nose healed the curve would be less prominent, the nose straighter when viewed in profile. In fact, most of the other guests assumed that a nose job was exactly what Charlie had received. It was now Sunday, the day after the doctor's visit. The swelling had gone down significantly, and the bruising under his eyes, while still apparent, wasn't quite as pronounced, although he still bore a close resemblance to a raccoon. Charlie was actually able to begin to see how his new nose would look, and had decided that it really didn't look that much different, at least from a frontal view. It was hard for him to see it in full profile, so he didn't quite appreciate the change. One of the models did, though; she'd told him that morning that his new nose made him 'leading man material.' He sat there now, in the late afternoon, wondering if Amita would think so, too.

The rest of his time at J.T.'s estate had been relatively uneventful. He'd driven in to CalSci on Saturday afternoon to try to catch up, only to have a horrified Millie chase him off campus. He obviously looked a lot worse than he felt, judging from Millie's reaction. Or at least, than his face felt. Mentally, he was feeling pretty lousy.

Other than J.T.'s calls, he'd had five phone conversations, two of them the day of the fight. He'd called Larry and Amita back after he'd woken that day. Larry seemed genuinely concerned, but the conversation was a bit a strained. Charlie couldn't blame him; what did a person say when a one's brother had just written them out of their life, and broke one's nose to boot? His conversation with Amita had been just as strained, and so had the second one, Saturday morning. He had the sneaking suspicion that she was upset with him for staying at J.T.'s, although she wouldn't admit it. Deep down, he had the subconscious impression that there was something more to it than that, something even more worrisome, but he pushed the thought away, refused to let it surface. He couldn't even begin to conceive of more rejection right now.

The third call had been a quick one from Colby, again awkward as hell; and the fourth call had been from his father; both had come on Saturday evening. Even the conversation with Alan wasn't comforting; Charlie couldn't tell him what had happened, because that would lead to other questions, things his father wasn't supposed to know; just minor items, such as the fact that his youngest was working undercover. So Charlie pretended he had a cold, and Alan assumed that his stuffy voice and despondent tone were due to that. After Charlie hung up, he reflected that he would need to tell his father that he had broken his nose, eventually; Alan would notice its new appearance. His father's return, however, was still a week away. Surely, he could come up with something believable by then. Of course, it would be harder to explain why he and Don didn't talk at all, anymore.

Because Don hadn't called – not once. Granted, they weren't supposed to be communicating, but even if they were being watched, a quick phone call wouldn't be noticed. Even if Don was afraid of a phone tap, he could have called from a pay phone, just to say 'Hi,' just to say 'I'm sorry,' just to say 'It was all a big mistake. I really don't hate you. Really.'

Silence, however, spoke volumes. Don apparently was just as happy to have Charlie out of his life. In fact, the only phone calls that Charlie looked forward to, these days, were from J.T. J.T. _was_ concerned, he _did_ try to encourage Charlie; he _was_ comforting. Charlie almost felt guilty talking to him – he'd spent Friday and Saturday nosing around the estate, trying to come up with something that revealed that J.T. knew about the doings at _Fantasy_. He'd found nothing – in fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was of J.T.'s innocence. It was quite possible that J.T. wasn't the person who had a spy in the office – if there even was a spy in the office, and Charlie was beginning to have his doubts about that. If Charlie was under surveillance, it would make sense that the person who ordered it was the person who ran _Fantasy_ – in fact, he might make it a point to check out all of his new guests, considering what went on there. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, Charlie was convinced that J.T. had nothing to do with the goings-on in the back room, and he felt guilty that he'd even considered it. He also felt guilty that he'd taken advantage of the man's generosity for four days, and decided that it was high time he went home. If he were still here this afternoon when J.T. returned, the man might feel obligated to ask him to stay longer.

So, at around one o'clock, with a sigh, he gathered up his towel and headed for the guest suite, to change, shower and pack. The house seemed dim after the bright sunlight outside, and as he stepped into the hallway, he nearly bumped into a man going the other way.

"Charlie!"

The voice was unmistakable, and Charlie squinted slightly as his eyes adjusted, then smiled. "J.T! Welcome back. I thought you weren't getting back until later today."

For a moment, J.T. couldn't reply. He'd been longing to see Charlie – so much so that he'd rushed his deal through, and made an excuse for departing early. Now here he was, so near he could touch him, and he was half-naked on top of it, clad only in his swim trunks. He was tanned from four days in the sun, and looked even leaner than before, almost on the thin side. The faint smell of tanning lotion wafted across the short space, and it made J.T. salivate. What really got him, though, was the face – the eyes, which looked darker and larger than normal in a face that was thinner, and the nose – J.T. would have sworn that the young man couldn't possibly be more attractive, but the change in his nose, however slight, had actually enhanced his appearance. The bruises under the eyes were what held him spellbound – they spoke of pain, and that reminded J.T. of what he'd dreamed of doing since he met the young man. He saw that Charlie was looking away uncomfortably, and he came to his senses. "Charlie – your nose – it looks wonderful!" he gushed. "It's still very you, but much more handsome. But my word, young man, didn't my cook feed you this week?"

Charlie flushed, embarrassed but pleased – at both the compliment and the fussing. It seemed like a long time since anyone had fretted over him. "I'm fine," he said. "The food was very good, I'm sure – my nose was so swollen I couldn't taste it – in fact, I still can't. Your doctor said that there will be swelling inside for a little while."

"Mmm," said J.T. nodding, and falling into step beside Charlie. "Yes – it's very faint, but you do still sound as though you have a cold. I'll have the chef do something tonight with a little more flavor – do you like spicy food?"

"Actually," hedged Charlie, "I was thinking of leaving. I've imposed on your hospitality long enough, and I'm sure you have more important things to do after returning from your trip than entertaining me."

"Nonsense," bellowed J.T. affably, and he gave Charlie a slap on the shoulder. "I was looking forward to some quiet, real conversation this evening." He cocked an eyebrow and looked at Charlie, his expression hopeful. "The best way to repay me, if you're concerned about it, would be to stay."

Charlie hesitated. Even though he'd convinced himself that J.T. was innocent, for some odd reason he couldn't help feeling as though he should go. His own home, however, would be empty – and there, he knew, he would have time to think, something he'd rather not do these days. They'd reached his bedroom door, and he paused there and looked at J.T. "Yeah, okay," he said, a bit bashfully. "I can stay until tomorrow morning."

J.T.'s face brightened. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I'll have the chef do something interesting for us." He stood there for a moment, and suddenly it seemed to Charlie that the look in J.T.'s sharp dark eyes was a little too intense; he was standing a little too close. As savvy as he seemed around people, Charlie thought to himself, J.T. had a lot to learn about respecting others' personal space. Then suddenly the man turned and strode off down the hall. "Come get me when you're dressed," he said, over his shoulder. "We need to talk about next weekend – there's another party if you're interested."

"Party?" Charlie called after him, and J.T. turned but kept walking backwards, grinning.

"Yes," he said, "like the one we went to last week. Are you interested?"

Charlie felt his gut give an uncomfortable twist. "Yeah," he said. "I'm interested."

"Good." J.T. gave him a satisfied nod and turned back down the hallway, and Charlie just stood, staring after him, trying to put a name on the uncomfortable premonitions swirling around inside of him.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Colby and David stepped into the large briefing room at LAPD headquarters, and Wright gave them a nod. "Come in," he said. "Have a seat." They complied, David moving dutifully to a seat across from Wright, Colby dragging behind. He'd never liked private meetings with one's superiors – they usually meant that either he was in for a reprimand, or that something not quite kosher was going down. Neither one of those options had ever resulted in anything pleasant, at least as far as he was concerned. He sat warily next to David, his blue eyes outwardly unreadable.

"We only have a couple of minutes before the rest of the crew comes in," said Wright, "and I felt I owned you a quick briefing before they did. We're preparing for a takedown of an illegal operation called _Fantasy_ – I imagine you've both heard of it. We've recently stumbled across the opportunity to put a man on the inside, and he's confirmed that any rumors we've heard about the operation are true – it is a venue for prostitution, drugs and illegal gambling." Colby was frowning, and Wright paused. "Question, Agent Granger?"

"Nothing – I mean, Don was asking about _Fantasy_ a couple of weeks ago."

Wright nodded. "That's because Charlie came in to ask him about it. Charlie's the man inside."

David and Colby stared at him, gaping. "Charlie?" asked David, incredulously.

Wright nodded. "He's been associating with a man named J.T. Morrison – a well-known Hollywood producer. Apparently, the man is a regular at the parties, and he managed to get Charlie an invitation. As soon as Don found out, he told me, and I brought in the DEA people who have been running the investigation. They had Charlie confirm the rumors of criminal activity, and this weekend, he'll be going in again, to pinpoint the location for us. The meeting that we're about to attend here is to prepare for the raid. They asked me to provide a couple of agents – you two are those agents, along with Don." He took in the glance that the two men exchanged. "That was one of the reasons I wanted to brief you – I know the fight that you witnessed between Don and Charlie was disturbing, and before you went into a possibly dangerous situation with your SAC, I thought you should know that it was staged. We were afraid that there was an informant in the office, and the argument was concocted to throw him off."

"It threw off more than the informant," muttered Colby.

David grunted in affirmation. "I'll say."

Wright grimaced. "Yes, I'm afraid it turned out to be a little more realistic than they'd planned. At any rate, I thought you should know that Don's suspension was part of the setup. He'll be participating in the raid, as will you – but the three of you will not speak of this at the office, for obvious reasons. Are you clear on this?"

"Yes." Both men nodded, and Wright's eyes flickered to the door as it opened, and Agents Cooke and Leach entered.

"I think our meeting is about to begin."

Colby eyed the DEA agents as they entered, followed by Lieutenant Walker and some of LAPD's most experienced officers, and two entire SWAT teams. It was a relief to know that the fight between the Eppes brothers had been staged, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that a bit of it, at least, had been real – he couldn't imagine that either of them had planned for Charlie's nose to be broken. As he glanced at the door and saw Don enter, looking haggard and grim, he was sure of it – there had been more to that fight than met the eye.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Friday afternoon, Charlie stared blankly at the test paper on the desk in his office, tapping his pencil absently. At a knock on the door, he glanced up. Cooke and Leach slipped in, both clad in hooded sweatshirts and jeans, and Charlie looked past them expectantly, hope on his face fading as they shut the door behind them.

Cooke's keen gaze missed nothing. "Problem, professor?"

Charlie shook his head, and straightened resolutely. "No – I just thought that maybe some of the others would be here."

Leach pulled up a chair, and eyed him speculatively. "Meaning your brother. No. We thought it was too risky for the two of you to communicate until after tomorrow. We don't want to give them any reason to rescind the invitation."

Charlie scowled at little at his presumptive tone. "I didn't say anything about Don."

Leach raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Right. Everything is still on?"

Charlie nodded. "J.T. is going to pick me up at six. We're starting out a little earlier this time."

"Any idea what that means?"

Charlie grimaced. "No."

Cooke tossed a wallet onto the table, "Here's your wallet back. We cut a slit in the fabric lining and inserted a GPS tracking chip. You're sure you went through the scan while they were looking at your wallet, right?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. Just make sure you hand over your wallet to be checked prior to letting them scan you, or it might set off their equipment. We're not sure how sophisticated it is, but we'd guess it's state of the art. Once you're inside, you can expect it will take us about an hour to get in place. We're hoping that there will be no resistance, but if there is, you need to think of somewhere you can find cover, in case shooting starts."

Charlie thought for a moment. "I could duck behind a bar. There's one set up in the back of the main room. Or if I hang out near the hallway entrance, there's a restroom nearby."

Cooke gave him a nod. "Okay. Just head for cover as soon as you know it's going down. We're hoping they won't be stupid enough to start firing, but you never know. Our men know who you are – just get yourself out of the way." He pursed his lips and looked at Charlie appraisingly. "You okay? You got your head on straight?"

"Yeah," said Charlie, nonchalantly forcing down the butterflies in his gut. "I'm good."

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

The second pick-up point was inside a shipping hub at an industrial park – the actual loading took place inside the building, away from prying eyes. Ramon drove the limousine, but for some reason that Charlie couldn't fathom, there was another man along for the ride, sitting in the passenger seat – J.T.'s usual limo driver. As they got in line with the other partiers, waiting to be processed, it became apparent that the other man was there to drive the limo home, because Ramon was going with them. It seemed odd to Charlie that a servant would be allowed to attend the event, but he was afraid to ask why – he didn't want to appear suspicious for any reason. Of course, Ramon seemed to be more than a servant; he was on call at all times, and seemed to handle all of J.T.'s personal matters. Perhaps J.T. was merely trying to reward him. Charlie didn't have time to ponder it - at that moment, he had enough to worry about; he needed to make sure he got rid of his wallet before he reached the scanner.

As he peered around J.T.'s broad shoulders, he was relieved to see that the cell phones, wallets, and evening bags were being collected before the scanning station, and actually were being processed on the other side of the truck, well away from the point where passengers were being scanned. He relaxed, and smiled as J.T. turned around with a grin. "Excited?"

"Yeah," replied Charlie. A sudden twinge of regret passed through him as he realized that J.T., who had done nothing but befriend him, could very well be implicated in the scheme, perhaps be arrested. He wondered uncomfortably what would happen to the guests who attended the party, but he took comfort in the fact that the bronze cardholders could hardly be accused of breaking any laws.

"Good," J.T. said – he seemed excited himself; Charlie could sense it underneath the man's normally cool demeanor. "It's going to be a night to remember."

Charlie smiled weakly. J.T. had no idea how right he was, he thought to himself, as he handed over his cell phone and wallet. He followed the wallet with his eyes as a man carried it around the corner of the truck. He'd caught a glimpse of a table set up there, but he couldn't see it from his vantage point, so he resigned himself to moving forward, toward the scanning station.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

On the other side of the truck, two of Markus' men pawed through the purses and flipped through wallets, checking the IDs against the passenger manifest. A third man, Dmitri, put cell phones into marked bags, and passed the wallets and purses past a small scanner, a few at a time. They'd never had a problem before, and so he almost missed the alarm – which was not audible; it was simply a silent red light that appeared on the device. He frowned, and looked down at the tiny evening bag and two wallets in his hand, then pushed a button to reset the scanner. The break in the flow had alerted the other two men, and they watched as he ran the handful of items past the scanner again.

"Getting a red light," Dmitri grunted unnecessarily, and scowled in puzzled annoyance as it flashed on again. He jabbed at the device to reset it, and passed the purse through separately. No light. He passed one of the wallets through with the same result, and then the third – and the light came on again.

"Whose is it?" asked one of the other men.

Dmitri had flipped it open, and was feeling through it, his annoyed expression changing to one of suspicion, as his fingers encountered the small bump under the fabric. "Charles Eppes," he murmured quietly. "Get me a razor."

One of the men handed him a retractable razor blade, and he inserted it deep into a fold and made a small slit, then fished out the tiny tracking device and set it on the table. The three of them looked at each other, then Dmitri said quietly, "Keep processing. I'm going to make a phone call."

He stepped aside well out of earshot and dialed a number, fighting the urge to look around the side of the truck at the passengers; then spoke quietly into a phone. "We've got a problem. We found a tracking device in a wallet."

Markus, miles away, had been surveying the final touches to the lighting at that week's _Fantasy_ location, and he gripped his phone with sudden intensity. "What did you say?"

Dmitri repeated, "I said, we found a tracking device in a wallet. It belongs to Charles Eppes."

Markus felt his heart lurch, and fought down a surge of panic and anger. "Does he know you found it?"

"Of course not. Do you want to cancel the show?"

"No, wait a minute." Markus paused, thinking rapidly, then said. "Okay. Give him back his wallet, and let him board. Get the passengers out of there and en route to_ Fantasy_, but we need to have some guys behind them, watching, making sure they aren't followed. Take the chip, and put it on another truck. You have two drivers lined up – assign one of them to the decoy truck, and have him drive to San Francisco, and when he gets there, have him pull the truck into an industrial park somewhere and leave it. Have him take a bus back to L.A. – we'll pick him up there. If the decoy works, we should be fine. If we think our passengers are still being followed, we can always cancel at some point along the way. We'll deal with Eppes when we get him out here."

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

The loading and scanning process didn't seem quite as efficient this time; there was a delay for some reason, and the passengers, who had all been scanned, milled about, waiting for the return of the their wallets and purses. Charlie felt anxiety mounting, but it rapidly disintegrated into relief as a man appeared from around the side of the truck with a box, and began handing out the passengers' belongings. He took his own wallet with a small grateful sigh, and shoved it in his back pocket as he handed his boarding pass to the man near the truck. Before him, the rear of the truck yawned like the mouth of an abyss. With one last glance around him, he ascended the short flight of steps, and stepped aboard.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

End Chapter 23


	24. Just Say No

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 24: Just Say No**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Don shoved a piece of gum in his mouth and bit into it almost viciously, his eyes on the corner of the warehouse complex, a block away. It had been two weeks from hell; he'd spent the better part of the time on suspension – or maybe that was 'in' suspension – he'd drunk enough to feel like the pickled creatures he remembered in biology class, swimming in formaldehyde suspensions in jars. More than once, he picked up the phone to call Charlie and beg for forgiveness, and each time, Cooke's warning words had floated through his head. '_No phone calls – we don't know if they are listening somehow. You wouldn't want his cover to be compromised, would you?_'

Part of him had been secretly hoping that Charlie would find some way to call him, or at least get a message to him. However, there was nothing – and to make matters worse, Leach had told him that Charlie had spent the first week recuperating at Morrison's estate, which gave Don yet another reason to worry. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when he'd heard that Charlie had come home Sunday, but it was short-lived; along with it came the news that Charlie had been invited back to _Fantasy_. This time, they were putting a chip on him so they could zero in on the location. This time, they were going to take _Fantasy_ down once and for all, and Charlie would be done with his assignment. Don had vowed to himself that as soon as it was all over, they were going to talk – he'd beg forgiveness on his knees if he had to, but somehow he was going fix things.

There was a crackle of radio in his ear, and then Cooke's voice came over the line. "Our surveillance unit says the bug is moving, and we've got a truck on its way out," he said. "Everyone keep well back of the lead units."

Don stepped around the corner, where Colby and David were already getting into the SUV, and climbed in the back seat, just in time to look through the windshield and down the alley and see a semi roll past, trundling down the road with a grinding shift of gears. They sat there well after it was gone, waiting nearly twenty minutes before the command came to move. To make sure they weren't seen, they were tracking the truck by chopper; the helicopter crew was going to call the semi's route down to the lead vehicles. Behind them would follow the tactical and SWAT teams – an impressive caravan of firepower, bearing L.A.'s finest.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Amita sighed as she folded one last sweater and placed it in the top of her suitcase. Her flight out was early the next day, and she'd packed everything except what she'd need in the morning. She was looking forward to going back home – not that her time with Larry hadn't been productive; they'd gotten a lot done, at least, they had after Dane had departed. Dr. Rastenbaum had been more of a distraction than she wanted to admit. So much so, that she had mixed feelings about being back on campus, and seeing him again.

She put him out of her mind resolutely. It was Charlie she should be thinking of, she told herself. Charlie, the man she loved, her fiancé. Although, she had to confess, he'd been difficult to understand lately, with his newfound penchant for the Hollywood fast lane. She had the impression that they'd been drifting apart, although deep inside, she knew it was she who had been sliding – Charlie had given her no reason to think that he was anything other than still in love with her. In spite of that, she couldn't deny the fact that her feelings for Dane were making her question how deep her commitment was to Charlie. She was not about to throw away that relationship, however; she was determined to make it work – at least until Charlie gave her an excuse to do otherwise.

She crawled into bed, and sat for a moment watching the light glint from the facets of the diamond on her finger. Then she turned out the light, and closed her eyes.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

The ride to _Fantasy_ was slightly longer than the first one, Charlie noted, and as soon he stepped out of the truck, he realized why. Even though they were again in a loading dock and he couldn't see much of the scenery, he could tell by the layout of the dock that they were in a different location. Another warehouse in the middle of nowhere. As an added precaution, the location of the party must vary, he realized. It didn't matter though, he thought to himself, as he felt the reassuring outline of his wallet in his back pocket – the chip would bring the team here, no matter where it was. He fell in line behind J.T., as they moved inside to get their passes.

There, he was in for another revelation. As they reached the lovely young thing handing out the bronze, silver, and gold passes on neck chains, J.T. turned to him, beaming. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "You were asking about the gold passes, and I must admit, it piqued my curiosity. I decided that it was high time I saw the rest of the show, and I could think of no one better to do it with than you and my faithful companion, Ramon. I got gold passes for each of us." Ramon, ahead of J.T., was listening, and Charlie saw an inscrutable expression pass over his face before he turned back to the young woman, and accepted a gold pass.

Charlie felt his heart drop. He was sure that the prosecutor would be lenient when it came to the bronze pass holders, as long as they were of legal age to drink. The silver and gold pass holders, however, would probably be another story. J.T. had no idea that by taking a gold pass he was setting himself up for arrest, even though he had no idea what went on the back room. Charlie couldn't protest, however; he couldn't afford to arouse suspicion. He mustered a smile. "That's great," he said, as he shuffled forward and took a gold pass, after J.T. "Although the bronze passes were fine – last week was tremendous."

J.T. smiled at him, and for some reason, Charlie felt a chill pass down his spine. "Last week," murmured J.T., "will be nothing compared to this week, trust me."

Charlie's smile had wavered, and he tried to summon it back to his face as they made their way down the hall to main showroom. Even though he knew they were in a different location, the interior walls, the stage, the bar, all looked familiar. He realized that all of the props and settings must be dismantled each week, and re-erected in a new location. The logistics of it were staggering, and he realized that Mr. X, the man who ran _Fantasy_, must charge an exorbitant price to make it worthwhile. He fingered the gold card handing from his neck, wondering just how much it had cost.

"Excuse me for a moment," J.T. was saying, and Charlie looked up to see a man standing next to J.T. He appeared to be one of the bouncers; he was a big man, wearing all black, like the bouncers had the week before, and had apparently just delivered a quiet message. J.T. smiled at him. "Why don't you and Ramon get yourselves a drink – I'll be right back."

Charlie nodded, and as J.T. and the man in black departed, looked at Ramon, who gave an indolent shrug, and headed for the bar. Charlie followed him, taking the opportunity to look for cover, as Cooke and Leach had suggested. The bar would certainly be a good spot if he was in the back of the room, and if he were up closer to the stage, he could duck down the side hallway to the restrooms. That is, if the restrooms were in the same location in this warehouse. One thing was certain, he was going to try to delay going to the back rooms. He had no desire to go back there again, and with any luck, the raid would start before J.T. decided to investigate _Dreamscape_. They had reached the bar, and Ramon turned to him. "What do you want to drink?"

Charlie hesitated. He'd already had one drink on the drive there, and planned to order something non-alcoholic, but he could hardly do that with Ramon watching. "A screwdriver," he said. He'd drink a bit of it, ditch the rest, and come back alone and get an orange juice on the rocks, he decided. No one would be the wiser. Ramon handed him his drink, and raised his own glass in salute. "To new experiences," he said, his dark eyes glinting.

"To new experiences," repeated Charlie absently, as his gaze traveled over Ramon's shoulder. He could just see J.T. in a dark corner, his light tan jacket discernable in the gloom, talking to a tall man who was also dressed in black, nearly invisible in the darkness.

**…………………………………………………………………….**

"He has to go."

"What are you talking about?" hissed J.T. "We just got here. I had everything planned – I reserved the room, I brought Ramon along to film -,"

"I don't mean 'leave,'" interjected Markus, his voice soft, but sharp. "I mean we need to take care of him - permanently. He's a spy undoubtedly working for the feds – he tried to board with a GPS tracking chip in his wallet."

J.T. stared at him, his mouth dropping, and he looked so completely befuddled that Markus nearly laughed. "What?" stammered J.T.

"You heard me. We took the chip out and put it on another truck; it's on its way to San Francisco. That ought to keep the feds busy for a while. But we need to get rid of him."

J.T.'s tanned handsome face had paled, and he stammered, "B-but you can't! He's mine – I'll take care of him. I'll take him away, keep him somewhere safe -,"

"Listen to yourself, you fool. You're completely besotted. Don't you think that your properties will be the first place the law looks? I have far too much riding on this – I can't take that chance."

Morrison had begun to recover, and a crafty look stole across his face. "There's no need to kill him, as long as he's somewhere he can't escape. Why don't you keep him? You can put him with your performers, and give me visiting rights. That way, I get him, and you get to keep control." As Markus hesitated, J.T. wheedled, "I'll pay you handsomely for the privilege."

Markus scowled. "No one knows the location of the complex, other than my staff."

J.T.'s eyes narrowed. "You can trust me – you know you can. Knowing he would never be found would give me leeway to do far more than I had imagined, and what I could do with him – well, let's just say I wouldn't want him to be found any more than you do." A cold smile crept to his face. "Of course, I could just circulate among your snobby clientele tonight, and drop the rumor that the law is breathing down your neck. Your business would vanish in a heartbeat – they'd all run for the Hollywood hills to save their precious reputations, and never come back."

Markus' jaw tightened; then eased as his eyes turned on the young man across the room. "Very well – it could work. I will do it on one condition – when you are done with him, you allow me to sell him through my Russian contacts. I imagine a mind of his caliber would be something of value on the international market."

J.T. grunted affirmation. "Yes, I can agree to that. I sent the limo driver home with the car – I'll have him pick up one of my past conquests and take him to the house. I can pay the man to give me an alibi for the evening, if the feds should ask me for one. I trust the room is set up?"

"Elaina had already arranged it to your liking. The video room is ready – although since there is now no reason to blackmail him, perhaps you don't need it?"

J.T. smiled. "No, I will use it – if for nothing else than to trifle with Ramon. How he will hate having to watch this!"

"One more thing," said Markus. "I have a drug for you to try. It doesn't knock them out completely, like Rohipnol can – with this drug, they drift in and out, and although they appear groggy, they generally comprehend most of what is happening to them. It's actually a precursor of Rohipnol, but it didn't catch on – the victims remembered too much. For you, though, and for role-playing here, it is ideal. Simply tell the man behind the bar that you want a dose of Impulse in his next drink."

J.T. smiled, and this time excitement and pure gratitude were on his face. "Thank you my friend – I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Markus grunted affably. "Just be careful. Don't let your obsessions obscure your judgment." He watched as J.T. made his way across the floor. 'These games will be his undoing,' he thought to himself, and he turned and slipped through the door behind him into his private office.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Cooke's voice came over the radio, crackling with static. "The truck's passing through the toll booths now, still headed north."

Don scowled, and glanced at his watch. "We've been on the road an hour and a half. Where in the hell is he going? Timbuktu?"

"Charlie did say they were leaving earlier than usual," David pointed out. "Maybe that's why – they were heading to a location that was further away."

Don grunted noncommittally in response, and chewed his gum reflectively. David had a point; although the longer they drove, the more apprehensive Don felt. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was wrong, but until the truck stopped, there was no way to find out what it was.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

Charlie stood staring at the acrobatic show, his stomach in a knot. Luckily, J.T. had seemed in no hurry to get into _Dreamscape_ and its back rooms, he had suggested having a drink or two and watching some of the show. They were standing this time, behind the chairs toward the left side near the hallway. Charlie was still nursing his first drink– he hadn't gotten an opportunity to get rid of it, and had been sipping it so slowly that the ice had melted. As the time had passed, he'd grown more and more impatient; more tense. They'd been there for an hour, and there was still no sign of the impending raid. It had to be starting any moment now.

There was another reason for the pretzel-like condition of his gut. Watching the acrobatic show was a completely different experience this time, knowing that the performers doubled as prostitutes. The gold card members had been given programs, with the pictures and names of each performer, along with a brief description, so they could select one for later entertainment. The performers went by single monikers – obviously stage names, and many showed a penchant for plants or celestial bodies – names like Mercury, Sage, Nightshade, Orchid. Charlie could see the young girl he'd met in the back rooms flitting here and there on the stage; he'd found her in the program. Her name was Star, and she was ten years old. As he watched her, he couldn't suppress a shudder.

J.T. was fidgeting impatiently next to him, shifting from foot to foot, and as Charlie glanced at him, he said, "It appears that you need a fresh drink."

"No, this is fine," Charlie demurred. The last thing he needed was another drink laced with alcohol – he'd been hoping to switch to orange juice.

"Nonsense," said J.T., reaching for it. "The ice has completely melted. I'm going for one – I'll get you a new one. What are you drinking?"

Charlie reluctantly let him take it. "A screwdriver." He couldn't be sure, but he swore that J.T. tried to stifle a grin as he turned away.

With a sigh, Charlie glanced down at the brochure in his hands. 'Better stick this in a pocket,' he thought to himself. It would be evidence, and would help the law enforcement officers to account for most of the performers. He folded it, tucked it in his jacket pocket, and glanced around at the entrances. Where in the hell were they?

J.T. had returned, accompanied by a waiter with a tray. On it sat their drinks, but along with them were three shot glasses, filled to the rims with a pale amber fluid. J.T. handed one to Charlie, who took his reluctantly, and one to Ramon, then took one himself. "I couldn't resist," Morrison said, with a smile. "This is extremely expensive tequila, and only available to gold card holders. Drink up."

Charlie hesitated, then with a resigned smile, tossed the shot down. He really had no choice but to play along, at least a little, although that screwdriver on the tray would be his last, for sure. After that many drinks, he could make a good case to J.T. that he had to slow down. He put the shot glass back on the tray and accepted his drink from the waiter, and as he turned his head to look at the stage, the room dipped slightly. It was an odd feeling, like being on the deck of a rolling ship, and he blinked and shook his head slightly to clear it. As he did, a bright silver light flashed across his vision, and he involuntarily stepped backwards. The room was moving a bit more now, and J.T. was peering into his face with a smile. "Charlie, are you all right?"

Charlie suddenly felt as though he couldn't hold himself upright, and he thrust his glass toward the waiter, trying to get it back on the tray before he spilled the drink. "M' not sure," he mumbled. "Feeling kind of dizzy." The drink disappeared from his hand – he was aware that it was gone but wasn't sure how – he was too busy trying to find a focal spot across the room to keep his balance. Another silver light shot across his field of vision, and then he felt hands take him by the arms, and he sagged into the support.

He could hear J.T. saying, "Charlie, we're going to take you somewhere you can lie down," and then they were turning toward a hallway marked '_Dreamscape_.' His mind was spinning, whirling along with the hallway around him; he was losing the ability to reason, although he remembered that the back rooms were somewhere he didn't want to be.

"Nnno,' he slurred. "M'okay. Jus' need to sit…" The last sentence was completely unintelligible to the others around him, but he didn't realize it – he had slumped in the arms of the guards, unconscious.

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

He awoke moments later; he was drifting in and out – he was lying down now, he could feel hands moving over him, quickly and efficiently unfastening his clothes. He had a brief impression that he was about to be examined – perhaps there was a doctor on site; then he was out again.

This time, although he didn't know it, he was out for a half hour. He awakened slowly; his head bobbing as someone gently slapped his face, and called his name. His arms felt heavy, and as he lifted his head, he realized that he was upright. Suddenly a hand grasped the hair at the back of his head, and lips brushed roughly past his. He recoiled in shock, jerking his head away, gasping, and the adrenaline cleared his head enough for him to realize that he was hanging by his wrists, suspended from the ceiling, although his feet were still on the floor. He blinked, and J.T. face came into view, smiling lecherously.

"Charlie, I thought you would never wake up," he purred, reaching a hand out to stroke Charlie's cheek. "You've been making me wait. Of course, you've been doing that since the moment I saw you. And we have all the time in the world – you do know that they found your GPS chip, and sent it off on another truck. No one is coming for you, Charlie – you're mine now."

Charlie gaped at him – his head still wasn't clear, and he shook it, trying to focus. The silver light shot across his vision again, and after it passed, he could see J.T. standing at the side of a room, surveying a rack. At the same time, he suddenly realized he was naked, and a surge of panic raced through him as he began to comprehend the situation. J.T. lifted a whip from the rack and ran a hand over it, lovingly. "I do so love a good whip," he said, "although they cut the skin, and that gets messy eventually." He put it down with a sigh, and lifted a broader leather strap, as Charlie stared at him in horror.

"J.T.-," he managed – he was slurring badly, the name unintelligible. This had to be a nightmare, he told himself; he was having some kind of reaction to the drink – maybe a drug – he was hallucinating…

J.T. had stepped over to him with the strap, still smiling, then suddenly wound up and lashed at Charlie's torso. The heavy leather strap hit with a smack, and forced an involuntary cry from Charlie's lips. It came down again, and again, and as the room began to spin once more, red began creeping into Charlie's vision, along with the flashes of silver.

He lost of track of time, slipping into and out of consciousness, each time he woke, encountering a new horror, new pain. His memories were a twisted confused mélange of torture devices, blows, jabs, twists, and electric shocks, and through them all, J.T.'s face, transformed by the unholy, sickening gleam in his eyes.

At length, through the red fog and silver haze, he felt himself sliding earthward. Then strong arms were pulling him, dragging him onto something soft; laying him half on his side. His head fell back, and he found himself staring blankly at a pair of hands, bound by leather restraints. His hands. Someone was holding a hook on the restraints, and hooking them to metal bars. Then the strong hands turned him on his stomach.

Charlie blinked, lethargically, and tried to pull away from the hot breath on the back of his neck. _No_, he thought, and the two-letter word took an eon of time to form in his befuddled mind. He felt cool air – and something else – brush against skin that should not be naked, and yet for some reason was. The breath was in his ear now, a voice, thick with passion and exultation. "I _own_ you," it said.

_No_, his brain repeated, slowly, methodically. He made a sound at the back of his throat, trying to remember how to talk. "Nnnnnnn," he grunted, unable to translate the word into actual verbalization. The room was swimming in red; abstract flashes of brilliant silver and white would shoot across his view like unobtainable lightning bugs. He had no body, and yet at the same time experienced excruciating pain. Spears of deceit, betrayal, and unimaginable horror jabbed at him with poisoned tips until he wanted to scream…wished he could remember how to scream.

But he could do nothing, say nothing; think only one thing: _No. _

**………………………………………………………………………………………..**

End Chapter 24


	25. You've Got Issues

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 25: You've Got Issues**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………**

The Eyes in the Sky became a crackling in Don's ear. "The Eagle has landed," deadpanned a dispassionate, disinterested voice, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. His back seat driving had pushed Colby over the edge less than five minutes into the trip. The younger agent had pulled to the shoulder of the interstate and switched places with his team leader in an angry huff that led to several minutes of an uncomfortable silence. "Downloading navigation to your GPS units now," the disembodied, disconnected intonation continued. "SFPD SWAT has been standing by, and is also en route. Will coordinate with LAPD on channel nine."

Don glanced at the SUV's dashboard clock and growled. "Walker should have let me ride in the SWAT van," he grumbled. "How did we end up in last place, anyway?"

David tried to reason with his team leader. "You're lucky Assistant Director Wright let you come at all," he pointed out.

Don spit out his response. "The fight with Charlie was staged. So was the suspension."

David suppressed a sigh. "I'm not referring to that, Don -- and you should know it. Agents are generally not allowed to be anywhere near an investigation when a close family member or friend is involved."

He wasn't having much luck soothing the savage beast, and Colby soon shot that plan to hell anyway. More or less safely ensconced in the back seat, Granger ventured an opinion. "If that fight was staged, you and Charlie should both be in Morrison's next film. We're talking Oscar-caliber."

In the ensuing silence, David closed his eyes and sank into his seat. Don hit his flashers and tromped on the gas pedal, determined to cut some time. The SUV surged forward and the growling engine almost silenced Don's quiet response. "It was _supposed_ to be. Staged, I mean. Charlie forgot to duck."

Granger grunted. "Dude. I've only got sisters, but if one of them came at me the way you went at Charlie -- I'd probably forget to duck, too."

David glanced quickly over his shoulder as he pulled even farther away from Don, hoping that Colby was prepared to duck right now himself. He probably should have maintained his silent sulk. "That's a little harsh," he interjected softly, ever the peacemaker.

Don's jaw clenched as he chewed his gum furiously. His hands tightened on the wheel again, which actually squeaked in protest. "He's right," he responded tersely. He looked in the rear-view mirror at Colby's shadow in the dark interior behind him. "You're right. I don't know why I said what I did. I didn't mean it." He swallowed, and let his eyes drop. "I didn't mean it."

Colby held onto the passenger strap with one hand and tried to balance himself with the other on the seat beside him, as the Suburban hurtled through the night. He was beginning to share David's point of view, regretting his earlier candor. "So, you'll fix it," he said now. "By the time we get there, Cooke and Leach will have Charlie out, and..."

Don interrupted him, sounding angrier than ever. "I can't believe he got himself into this in the first place," he ranted. "His security clearance level means that much to him?" His voice became louder and more stringent with each sentence. "He's a _teacher_, dammit! He should be happy as long as he has a place to teach!"

David could hardly believe it himself when his voice was the next one he heard. "I don't know, Don." Eppes glanced furiously in his direction. The SUV swayed and Sinclair winced, shrugging. "I'm just saying. Maybe he's only worked with us for a few years, but I'm pretty sure he's been consulting on a top security level for a while."

"Yeah," Granger chimed in. "Every alphabet agency out there has an interest in Charles Eppes! Hell, we've run into half of them in cases of our own, and discovered that Charlie already had a history with them -- the CDC, NSA, Coast Guard..."

"Shut up," Don said bitterly. "You're not helping. I already know that Charlie's not doing any of this because of me -- I asked him not to; I _begged_, dammit! He went under anyway. His fucking clearance, and working with all those other agencies, obviously means more to him than I do."

Granger and Sinclair exchanged a look. Unfortunately, the interior of the vehicle was not light enough for Colby to read the warning on David's face. He shook his head. "Dude. You and Charlie have issues."

David hurried to intervene before Don flipped the Suburban. "Look, after we get him out, we've got a long ride back to L.A. Colby and I can hitch a ride with SWAT -- or Cooke and Leach, if we have to. You and Charlie should ride back together. You haven't really been able to talk to him since the fight, right?"

Don's sigh echoed inside the vehicle, full of despair and concern. "No," he admitted finally. "Maybe you've both got a point. Charlie and I definitely have issues -- and the ride back to L.A. might just clear up a few."

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Ramon wanted to scream, to cry, to protest the injustice as much as the _gringo_ tied up on the bed seemed to want to – but for entirely different reasons. There was a time, not so long ago, when _he, Ramon,_ had made J.T. groan in ecstasy like that.

It had been difficult, when Morrison tired of playing with him. He had stayed in J.T.'s employ hoping that his lover would come back to him; and he had, upon occasion. With Ramon always there, in the house, he became a convenient rebound man. Morrison would have his affairs – he would not even attempt to be discreet about them, and Ramon's heart would break a little more with each _boy du jour_ -- but at least he could have J.T. himself for a few weeks, in-between the conquests.

This one was different.

He hated this one.

He had hated this one from the start. He was a man of dark and swarthy beauty, in some ways, and was made more attractive by his peculiar mix of intellectual brilliance and social naïveté. He was certainly the most mature, and well-known, of all the men Ramon had watched J.T. pursue. His employer took his time with this one; the fact that the object of his affections was obviously not gay, and not interested in a sexual liaison with J.T., seemed to attract Morrison even more.

It disgusted Ramon, all of it. J.T. bringing him along, to rub his nose in it like he was a disobedient dog! The undeniable excitement he felt while watching, while listening…he was disgusted with himself, as well. For quite some time he even forgot that he was supposed to be filming with the handheld digital camera. If he had not been panting, he would have thought that he had even forgotten to breathe.

The poor slob on the bed?

He was the most disgusting of all. Drugged half out of his mind, yet still doing his best to protest. Crying like a spoiled child.

He hated this one.

**………………………………………………………………………………**

Originally twenty minutes behind the SWAT van, ten minutes behind Cooke and Leach, Don had managed to nearly halve the distance between them all by the time David gently prodded him. "Right at the end of the bridge," Sinclair advised. "An industrial warehouse…"

"I heard," snapped Don impatiently. "I heard them take down the driver, too. What I _haven't_ heard is any reference to the cargo in the back of that semi."

Colby leaned forward a little to peer through the front windshield as Don finally began to slow the SUV. It wasn't difficult to tell where they were supposed to be. The chopper hovered above the abandoned set of warehouses, a bright searchlight aimed at the parking lot. Two SWAT vans blocked the driveway, their headlights providing additional illumination of the semi – which was pulled up to the loading dock. Cooke and Leach stood with the driver near the cab, and Don screeched to a half beside their sedan, behind one of the vans. He was out the driver's side door before the SUV had completely rolled to a halt, and he hit the ground running. Colby and David were not far behind.

Don threaded his way through the vehicles and law enforcement personnel, and started yelling before he reached the DEA and NSA agents. "_WHERE IS HE? WHERE'S CHARLIE?_"

Leach looked away, and Cooke shuffled his feet, waiting for Don to get closer. When he did, Agent Cooke nodded at the driver. "Bert Resin. Claims he had no idea where he was headed."

The driver appeared completely unperturbed. He reached for the baseball cap on his head, tipped it up a bit so that he could scratch his scalp underneath, and shrugged. "Like I said, I been driving for this guy 'round 'bout a year, and I ain't never gone to the same place – or used the same truck – twice. Somebody downloads turn-by-turn directions to the GPS, and I just go where I'm told. First time I've hauled an empty truck, though; and I ain't never gone this far before, neither."

Don took a threatening step toward him that Resin did not even seem to notice. "Empty? What the hell's he talking about?"

Cooke turned his head to look at Leach, who reluctantly held up a large evidence bag. "This is all we found in back," he practically whispered, and Don reached out and yanked the bag from his hands. Inside was yet another bag, this one a quart-size common kitchen storage bag. It contained a cell phone, and a lone GPS chip.

Don's heart fell. "From Charlie's wallet?"

Cooke nodded, and Don held back a groan. "This…this isn't his phone," he protested, grasping at straws. "Track the GPS in his phone. I know they hold them somewhere until after the party, but at least that will get us closer." He glared at Resin, who appeared almost bored. "Maybe one of the other employees is less brain-dead than this one!"

Cooke appeared interested and reached for the evidence bag, but Colby intercepted him. He looked sadly inside for a moment, and then at Don. "He broke his iPhone, remember? This looks like the one he had the day I took him to the hospital." He looked back at the bag and managed to wrestle the phone open through the layers of plastic, jabbing the '2' and depressing the 'Send' button. Almost immediately, Don's own phone began to vibrate on his belt, and automatically his hand went to it. Colby shrugged apologetically, as if it was somehow his fault. "I think Amita is #1 on speed-dial," he shared, snapping the phone shut again and passing the bag on to Agent Leach.

Leach silently accepted the bag as LAPD Lieutenant Gary Walker and two of his men joined the party. He looked at Eppes, not unsympathetically. "We'll find Dr. Eppes," he drawled before turning to the Sergeant to his left and issuing an order. "Martin, get this clown into the back of the van; maybe the trip back to L.A. will improve his memory."

Resin shrugged. He knew they couldn't keep him forever without charging him, and he had done nothing wrong; he was a licensed driver who had delivered his cargo – nothing more, nothing less. He hadn't even violated the speed limit! There was nothing he could tell them about 'Mr. X' that they didn't already know, and there would probably be a fat bonus in it for him when his mysterious employer found out about his troubles. A free trip back to L.A. was fine with him, so he lumbered off willingly with Walker's men.

"Take him to Parker Center," Cooke said to Walker. "There's still the issue of a possible leak at the F.B.I. offices."

Don was still too stunned by the lack of Charlie to get his back up over that, and he turned to walk the perimeter of the semi to see if they had missed something – like a skinny mathematician with a broken nose riding underneath the vehicle, hanging onto the axle, or something. He almost missed Leach's quiet comment. "This is horrible," the NSA agent said. "I _knew_ we should have let him out when he wanted out."

Don took another half-step before the words caught up with him. Slowly, he turned, and started back toward the duo. "What did you say?" he demanded.

"_Shut up,_" hissed Cooke, but Leach didn't even glance in his direction.

Instead he looked at Don, defiantly lifting his chin and speaking tremulously. "Charlie called Agent Cooke a few days before the first party – he was on speaker phone, and he said he wanted out. He said that _you_ advised against his participation, and he said that he respected your opinion a lot more than he did ours."

Don was close enough now to exhale hot air onto Cooke's defensive half-sneer. "Did you threaten him with losing his clearance again?" Colby and David began to move into flank position, having no trouble interpreting Don's tone.

Cooke remained silent, but Leach jumped right back in. "No; he did worse. He threatened him with _your_ clearance."

That stopped Don long enough for him to actually look at Agent Leach. "He did _what_?"

Leach nodded. "It started with Charlie's clearance, but your brother said he was prepared to let that go. So Cooke told him you were under internal investigation, and that we could stop it. He let Charlie believe that staying under was the only way to save your career."

The noise of the chopper and the dozens of officers milling the parking lot faded into nothing. Fully expecting to be too late to prevent Don from killing Cooke, Colby stepped in-between them, his back to the DEA agent. He was so surprised to discover that he had moved faster than Don, Granger didn't quite know what to do, and found himself staring mutely at his friend.

Dark eyes that were pools of agony stared back. "Oh, God," Don choked, looking pleadingly at Colby. "He did it for me. He did it for me, and now he's out there…somewhere, missing…" His eyes widened, and his knees buckled, David just barely managing to keep him on his feet. "God, he thinks I wish he'd never been born! He thinks I hate him!"

Colby moved in close. He could hear Cooke's arrogant voice berating Agent Leach behind him, and tried his best to ignore the distraction. "Don, we'll find him," he promised. "We've got three federal agencies and two city PDs in on this so far, and we'll call in more." Don had moved a shaking hand to his forehead, and Colby leaned in even closer. "Come on," he encouraged, his voice low and friendly as if trying to befriend a potentially rabid dog. "Help me grab the GPS – we'll take it back to the lab guys. Maybe another driver took this truck to wherever they've got Charlie; the location could still be buried in the GPS."

Don nodded dumbly, shaking off David's supporting hand and glaring over Colby's shoulder at Cooke. "Don't think this is over," he promised, his voice resonating in the night. "I can't waste my time with your sorry ass right now – I've got to find my brother. But I swear to God, Cooke, you will wish I'd just laid you out in this parking lot, before I'm finished with you!"

Cooke swallowed and involuntarily took half a step back, but he tossed his head and shook his finger in the air to make his point. "He's threatening me! I have witnesses!"

Walker was still the closest to Cooke, and now he raised an eyebrow. "Witnesses? Only thing anybody standing here heard was some lame-ass story with a disappearing mathematician for a punchline. You want to talk about witnesses, and lost careers, you should maybe think about false testimony, and the blackmail of a civilian – in the presence of a NSA operative, no less." Walker snorted, and turned to follow his men back to the van. "I'm gonna make sure they secure the driver," he muttered, looking over his shoulder and glancing back darkly at Agent Cooke one last time. "Something here stinks, anyway."

**……………………………………………………………………**

J.T. Morrison had waited a long time for this one, and it was difficult to get him to listen to reason. Elaina and Ramon eventually stopped trying, and brought in the "Big Gun"; Markus was somehow able to reach J.T.'s upstairs brain, and convince him that it was time to go.

"When they discover the empty truck, the chip; the investigation will be immediate," Markus pointed out. "You know the brother will probably go to your estate tonight; he is unlikely to wait until morning. J.T., _you know what you must do_, if you want me to…store…your friend, and allow you access in the future."

The thinly veiled threat – Markus could arrange for Charlie's permanent disappearance in an instant, J.T. knew – helped to bring the producer to his senses. Still, it was with great reluctance that he rested swollen lips chastely on the stubbled cheek, and whispered '_Good-bye'_.

J.T. and Ramon were the only two passengers in the back of the semi that was taking them to the rendezvous with Morrison's chauffeur and limo. It was still very early, in party time, and no-one else had expressed an interest in leaving yet. The hostess set them up with drinks, urged them to let her know when they were ready for more, and wisely retreated to the bar, where she perched on a stool and chatted with the bartender.

In memory of Charlie, J.T. had ordered a screwdriver – which he swirled over the cubes of ice and sighed over like a love struck young girl. Ramon sulked his way through a White Russian – also in memory of Charlie, although he didn't realize that was what he was doing when he ordered his drink – and took it as long as he could. Finally, he glanced quickly at the bar to make sure Mr. X's employees were keeping themselves busy, and leaned slightly in Morrison's direction. "If you have…additional needs tonight, you know you are always welcome in my quarters."

J.T, snorted derisively. "I'm sure that won't be necessary, you fool. Avian is waiting for me at the estate already; he will serve as my alibi should the need arise." J.T. swirled his glass again and continued his line of thought. "In that regard, Ramon; Pierre will take the limo to that tiny little dump in Pasadena. We want nosy neighbors to see Charlie coming home. Pierre will come around to the back of the limo and open the door for you – he will escort you to the garage. It is not unusual for Charlie to go there at any hour of the day or night, from what I understand, and it should be easy enough for a man of your skills to get inside. Turn the light on so it looks normal, but stay away from windows. Pierre and I will return to the estate."

Ramon interrupted. "What about me? Am I to stay in the garage all night?"

J.T. rolled his eyes. "You are such a buffoon, Ramon. I only hope you do not do something stupid that ends this for us all. _Of course not._ Stay for twenty minutes, half-an-hour – then extinguish the light and leave quietly; stick to the dark edges of the lawn, take cover in the foliage." He laughed, abruptly. "Do try to avoid falling in that fishbowl he calls a koi pond. I do not care what you do with the rest of your night – as long as it does not involve a cab, which can be traced. Go to a bar, pick someone up, get yourself picked up. Establish your own alibi; or find a way home, if you must. Simply leave Avian and myself alone. I do not care for a threesome tonight."

Ramon was stunned; taken aback, offended. "You're using me to protect your own lily-white ass and then hanging mine out to take the fall?"

J.T. let loose an aggrieved sigh and took a small sip of his sweating drink. "I did not say that, Ramon – although you are such an idiot, it might not be a bad idea. However, I am a man of my word. I told you once that I would take care of you. I will not suggest your name to the authorities, but I am sure they will ask about my staff; especially those not in the house tonight. I am merely suggesting that you take the initiative and provide yourself with a willing partner for a few hours. You may bring him – or her – back to the estate, if you wish." He snorted, again. "Providing your paramour has a vehicle, of course."

**………………………………………………………………………………**

Colby had managed, without much resistance, to convince Don that he should drive the Suburban back to L.A. It was starting out as another uncomfortable and silent trip. Don sat in the front passenger seat, full of angst, regret, self-incrimination. David was in the rear – and so was the NSA's Agent Leach, who had refused to make the trip back sitting next to Cooke in the sedan.

Leach had almost-shyly approached Granger as the FBI agents were climbing into the SUV. "I'm afraid one of us might shoot the other," he said with a seriousness that surprised Colby a little, and gave him pause. "I understand if you don't want to give me a ride back; I kept silent for far too long. This is as much my fault as his." He half-turned to leave, having convinced himself that he should be turned away. "I can catch a bus. Or something."

Colby was further surprised when Don's despondent voice drifted softly across the hood of the Suburban. "Let him in," the team leader suggested. "We wouldn't know what we do if he hadn't turned on his partner; that can't be easy." Don sounded almost reluctant as he offered one last bit of advice. "You just might want to put him in the back seat, and keep him away from me."

So Colby had arranged them all as if planning a dinner party – he was driving; Leach was behind him; Don was in the front passenger seat; and David was behind him – and they had spent the next silent ten minutes negotiating their way back out to the freeway.

They had been hurtling back toward L.A. for another ten minutes before Colby couldn't stand it any longer. "I really think our guys will pull something off that GPS," he opined, referring to the unit that sat on the seat between him and Don.

"Yeah," David chimed in, a note of relief in his voice. "I'm sure we'll still be able to find Charlie before the party is even over."

Don emitted a low groan. "I hope so. Both my Dad and Amita are due home tomorrow. What am I going to tell them? That Charlie got himself…in trouble…trying to save me?" He twisted uncomfortably in his seat and glared at Agent Leach. "I swear to God, Cooke will never work another case in his life. Either the DEA takes care of that – or I will."

Leach nodded, swallowing hard, not looking away from Eppes. That would be dangerous – like looking away from the mother bear protecting her cub. Instead he brought his hand out of his jeans pocket and dangled a set of keys before the steaming agent like some sort of prize. "We won't have to worry about him for the rest of the night, at least. I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Walker won't have room for him in the SWAT van, what with transporting the driver back to L.A. – and I've got the keys to the sedan. Cooke's wallet is locked inside, so he'll have a little difficulty buying a bus ticket."

Don's eyes fastened upon the keys and widened – and he was suddenly suppressing a smile. "He could call somebody in the DEA," he noted.

Leach nodded, pocketing the keys again. "That's true. Then he would have to explain to a superior why no less than four police agencies – and his partner -- abandoned him in the middle of the night at a deserted industrial park on the edge of San Francisco. Something tells me he might not make that call."

Don turned back around in his seat, relaxing almost imperceptibly into the leather. He glanced sideways at Colby, and could see the gleaming white teeth grinning in the night. He turned his head to look out the passenger window, and heard David's low chuckle behind him. _Charlie will love this story,_ he thought, watching the asphalt fly beneath them. He sighed then, fogging up the window and blinking back tears. _Please, please, God. Let Charlie live to love this story._

_Please._

**……………………………………………………………………………………**

End Chapter 25


	26. Alibis and Red Herrings

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 26:**** Alibis and Red Herrings**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………**

He almost escaped, during the transfer.

Mr. X had let a sufficient amount of time pass, in-between J.T.'s departure and the arrival of security, that Charlie was closer to sober than anyone suspected. Perhaps, in the melee of _Fantasy_, Markus simply forgot that Charlie had been dosed with Impulse rather than the heavier-hitting and longer-lasting Rohipnol. More likely, he forgot to inform his security personnel of that fact. Whatever the case, Charlie found himself alone in the tiny, partitioned room, still trussed up and naked on the squeaky wrought-iron bed. His arms stretched painfully over his head, and he tugged a few times before it became clear that his wrists were ensnared in something, trapped somehow in the vertical bars of the headboard. With that knowledge came a flood of memories; Charlie remembered more than he wanted. Noises drifted to him from similar rooms, a sound track for his disjointed memories, and he lay in abject misery.

He hurt where no man, in his opinion, should ever hurt. Chagrined, he also understood that he was lying in the sticky evidence of his own…involuntary reaction. Worse, there were clear scenes playing across the chalkboard of his mind that involved J.T. He knew now that Morrison was heavily involved in the backroom illegalities of _Fantasy_. He understood that the producer had set him up for this humiliation from the very beginning. It was also apparent that no-one was coming, from the F.B.I. or anywhere else, to save Charlie.

Something had gone horribly, completely wrong.

When the two well-dressed goons came to escort him to his own private transport, Charlie played possum. While it wasn't unusual to carry drunks and otherwise overdosed individuals out of a _Dreamscape_ room, leaving that person tied up the way Charlie was, could potentially cause a stir among the other patrons. With little discussion, the men loosened the lengths of leather and silk that bound him.

If he had been just a little more sober – or just a little less traumatized – Charlie would have waited until a more opportune time to make his move. As it was, as soon as one of the guards pulled him to his feet, Charlie uttered a Tarzan-yell into his ear, startling him, and pushed against the man successfully enough to thrust him onto his ass on the cement floor. Then, having little real idea where he was and absolutely no idea where he was going, Charlie took off running. He continued screaming all the way down the hall -- once he started, it seemed that he could not stop – and staggered more than he ran. Buck naked, covered in vivid purple bruises, hair a wild halo around his head; the other patrons found him very amusing. Many assumed he was simply part of the entertainment. He did not get far before the original security guards received some help from additional security personnel.

It took four sober, fit and muscular men to restrain one skinny, nude, terrified mathematician with a broken nose – but eventually, they did. Charlie still fought, even as he felt the needle enter his arm. He fought until the sedative took effect, and then his dark eyes, full of terror and pain, darted from one of the security guards to another, until he lost his battle and fought no more.

**……………………………………………………………………**

It was nearly three in the morning by the time the three F.B.I. agents and Leach reached L.A. Don had Colby take the SUV straight to Morrison's estate.

When they reached the gated entry, he told Colby to break it down; to hell with the damn Suburban. Colby insisted upon the more traditional route, however, ringing the bell at least half a dozen times before someone responded and eventually buzzed them in.

By the time Colby navigated the vehicle up the winding drive, J.T. Morrison himself was waiting for them at the front door of the well-lit estate. He was wearing a dark navy velour robe that set off his graying hair nicely, and leather Romeo slippers that probably cost at least as much as Don's SUV.

A younger, blonder, thinner, taller Adonis in pajama bottoms – and nothing else – lingered in the vestibule behind him as J.T. took a few steps into the cool night to greet his official visitors. He smiled, although confusion was apparent on his face, and extended a hand toward Don. "Agent Eppes? My goodness, what an odd time for a visit! When my house boy Ramon awoke me, I thought he was insane. Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

Don ignored the offered hand and tried to look past Adonis into the house beyond him. "Where's my brother?" he asked with no preamble.

Morrison dropped his hand and chuckled. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmured. At the look on Don's face, J.T. took half-a-step back. "He's at home asleep, I would imagine. Ramon and I dropped him off well before midnight."

Don had been ready for a lot of bull – but not that. He jerked his eyes back to Morrison. "What? I want my men to search the house."

J.T. fluttered a hand in acquiescence. "Don – may I call you Don? – I have no idea what the problem is, but my home is always open to you and your friends. In fact, I insist that you all come in from the cold now, and join me in the breakfast room. Ramon and his…guest…are in the kitchen brewing us some coffee. Please warm yourselves, and then you may search for whatever you want."

Don flicked his gaze to Colby, who shrugged, as taken aback as his team leader. Then he looked back at Morrison, and nodded toward the young man who was turning to lead the way into the house. "He have a name?"

J.T. smiled as he began to follow, gesturing with his hands that the agents should fall into line. He walked beside Don as they headed indoors. "Ah," he chuckled. "That's my old friend Avian. It's his fault I ended up cutting my evening short with Charlie – Avian phoned as we were approaching the rendezvous and told me he was in town for the evening. Naturally, I had him come here to wait for me." He chuckled again. "I confess, I was so anxious to spend time with Avian, I didn't really enjoy _Fantasy_ the way I usually do."

Don skidded to a halt in the great room, causing David to actually run into him. Don turned slightly and nodded briefly at the junior agent. "Take Leach and search the house for Charlie." He turned his head toward Morrison. "Unless our host objects, of course? Would you like us to come back with a warrant?"

Absolutely nothing flickered over J.T.'s expression – save renewed confusion. "You're looking for Charlie? Good Lord, Don, isn't he at home? Of course you don't need a warrant; I just don't understand what's going on." Morrison shrugged and smiled engagingly. "I'll admit, it usually takes me a few cups of coffee to think clearly…and it is three in the morning…"

A stunning redhead wearing only a man's loosely buttoned dress shirt strode into the room on the longest pair of legs Don had ever seen – evidently, Ramon's 'guest'. Finding four strange men in the great room didn't seem to bother her. She smiled at them invitingly, letting her gaze linger on J.T. "Mr. Morrison, sir, Ramon says the coffee is ready."

J.T. took Don by the elbow. "Come, sit with me and tell me what's become of Charlie." He waved his other hand in David's direction. "You men feel free to search to your heart's content – I have nothing to hide. Do join us for coffee as soon as you can."

Don shook off J.T.'s hand but followed him into a breakfast room that was half the size of the Craftsman, Colby trailing behind after a bewildered look at David. The willowy redhead had disappeared, but a dark and scowling young man was waiting for them with a full pot of coffee. Morrison arranged them all at the table, while the dark-skinned young man began to fill the heavy earthenware mugs that sat before each of them.

"Thank you, Ramon," murmured J.T. He laid one hand in the lap of his Adonis Avian, who sat somewhat vapidly next to him, and placed the other on the handle of his mug, looking at Don over the table. "This is my house boy, Ramon," he introduced. "Ramon accompanied Charlie and me to the party tonight. When I decided to come home early, I offered to let them stay later and send the car back for them, but they both said they'd just as soon make an early night of it themselves." He looked up at Ramon, who had circled the table and now stood over Don, his carafe of coffee nearly empty. "We dropped Charlie off before midnight, wasn't it?"

Ramon's sneer was almost imperceptible. "We were at the small house in Pasadena around 11:45," he concurred.

Granger had stopped ogling the palatial surroundings long enough to gulp some coffee, and now he set his mug down and found his voice. "Charlie told us about those parties – don't they take your phones? How did you get a call?"

Morrison nodded. "Yes, yes…when one meets transport at the rendezvous point, one relinquishes one's phone. Avian called while we were still on the way there, in the limo."

He leaned over the table toward Don. "Tell me what's happened, please. You've been to the house in Pasadena, and Charlie's missing?"

Don wasn't about to admit that they hadn't been to the Craftsman yet, and he hedged. "We found Charlie's cell phone in the back of a truck in San Francisco," he answered.

Morrison's expression of confusion was back. "Perhaps he lost it? Or it was stolen?"

Ramon snickered sarcastically. "Some smart professor. He can't seem to hold onto cell phones very long, can he?" Morrison shot him a warning glance, and Ramon turned quickly away. "I'll see if Pa…Sal…Ter… the girl is done with more coffee."

Don studied J.T. carefully for any reaction while he spoke. "Charlie was going to the party undercover; when he attended the first one, he documented several instances of illegal activities. We had people ready to tail him tonight; a GPS locator chip was placed in his wallet. That chip was with the cell phone we eventually found in San Francisco, so I know somebody found it." Now Don leaned toward J.T. "I just need to know exactly _who_, so I can kill him."

J.T. paled dramatically and his hand flew from Avian's lap to his throat. His eyes grew wide. "Oh, my heavens! I…" – he looked at Avian, and then back to Don – "…I know nothing of anything illegal at _Fantasy_. If Charlie stumbled onto something, it's news to me. Dear God. I _never_ would have willingly exposed such a dear friend... Oh, my Lord." He paused, and took a breath. He looked up at Ramon, who was coming back in from the kitchen, _sans_ coffee. "In retrospect, this would explain his demeanor tonight. I just assumed he was still in pain."

Ramon's upper lip seemed to curl. "From his brother breaking his nose, you mean. Yeah, he was a little anxious tonight – but he's been upset ever since that fight." He looked Don over and smiled. "You know, he stayed here for nearly a week afterwards; he was so sad, sometimes I almost felt sorry for him. Looks like you won – I don't see a mark on you."

Don's face darkened and Colby hurried into the conversation. "So, back to tonight. The three of you go to this party. On the way, Avian calls, and you decide to make an early night of it. You dropped Charlie off…"

Morrison suddenly interrupted. "I'm sure they returned his cell phone, when they returned mine, and yours, Ramon. Didn't you notice that?"

Ramon shrugged. "Didn't notice him _not_ getting one," he answered.

J.T. grew excited. "There!" he crowed, literally bouncing in his seat. "Someone must have followed us, and…what's the word…_nabbed_ Charlie at his house after we dropped him off!"

"Not enough time," argued Don. "We followed the locator chip all the way to San Francisco – and the chip stopped moving at 12:15 a.m."

J.T, looked as if he were about to burst into tears. "Oh!" he responded, disappointed. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands. "This is horrible!"

Avian slid an arm around Morrison's shoulders, and suddenly found his voice – or remembered his lines, Don thought darkly. "Now, now," Adonis murmured, "it'll be all right. They'll find your friend…"

Colby's attention was divided between Morrison, Don and Ramon, but Don's eyes followed Ramon as he turned to return to the kitchen and fetch the second pot of coffee.

It didn't for one second escape Don's notice.

Ramon was smiling.

**…………………………………………………………………………**

F.B.I. Assistant Director Wright was waiting at Parker Center by the time Walker and the SWAT team returned. Lt. Walker dropped off Charlie's phone and the errant GPS chip at Forensics, planted the truck driver Resin in an interrogation room, stopped by the break room to mainline some coffee, filled a couple of Styrofoam cups with even more, and finally swung by the shift commander's office, where VIP guests were kept waiting. He grinned wryly when Wright stood to greet him and thrust one of the cups in his direction. "Can't thank you enough for coming down here in the middle of the night. I figured we should debrief this guy as soon as possible."

Wright accepted the cup and looked into the hallway over Walker's shoulder. "Exactly where is everybody else?" He then focused narrow eyes on the lieutenant. "And I do mean, _'exactly'_."

Walker shrugged, sipped some more coffee, and drawled an answer. "Your men headed directly to the Morrison estate, to see what they can get out of him. Agent Leach hitched a ride with them, so I would imagine he's assisting in the questioning." He coughed; cleared his throat, and briefly moved his eyes away from Wright's. "Agent Cooke is no longer part of this investigation. We have the testimony of Leach as well as his own admissions; he used Dr. Eppes to further his own agenda. At best, the Professor was misled; smart money says he was told out-and-out lies -- lies that may have led directly to his disappearance. I put a call into DEA Assistant Administrator Zanzibar, reported what's going on. Not sure how they'll handle it; fact is, we need to debrief Resin sooner rather than later."

Wright's eyes narrowed further, if that was possible. "Agent Leach wouldn't even ride back to town with him?"

Walker shrugged again and began leading the way to interrogation. "Guess not," he hedged. "I'd be right surprised to see Agent Cooke show his face anywhere near this investigation -- or your Agent Eppes – again, frankly. We've gotta be talkin' at least suspension, here, if not worse."

He went on to describe how Cooke had talked Charlie into fulfilling his undercover mission, and Wright's face was twisted as if he had bitten into something sour by the time the two men paused outside the interrogation room. He inhaled a large swallow of coffee and grimaced even further. "This stuff is horrible," he remarked, and squared his shoulders. "You're right -- if Cooke knows what's good for him, he's still in San Francisco. Far away from all things Eppes."

Walker chuckled and reached for the doorknob. "Let's do this."

**...................................................................................**

The idea was preposterous, but the agents decided to check the house in Pasadena before they returned to Parker Center. Colby was still driving the SUV. "Boy, that J.T. Morrison – he's a piece of work," he remarked when they were about halfway to the house. "Did he get started in the business as an actor?"

Don continued to stare out the passenger window and did not acknowledge him, but Agent Leach had an opinion. "Charlie was convinced that Morrison wasn't involved," he shared. "Cooke and I met with Charlie last night, to make sure he was ready for this, and he talked about the week he spent at Morrison's estate. Morrison wasn't even there most of the time -- he was off on some job – so Charlie claimed he took advantage of having free run of the place, and looked around for anything that might indicate Morrison's involvement."

At that, Don's head whipped around. "He did _what_? Good God, Leach, why didn't you people just shoot him yourself, if you were going to work this hard at getting him killed?"

He was halfway over the seat and Leach shrank away from him, glancing at David in terror. "We didn't send him in there!" he insisted, holding up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "We didn't even know he was doing it until it was over, I swear!"

Don suddenly deflated like a balloon burst by a pin, and sank back into his own seat. "Figures," he mumbled, lowering his head to his hand. "Charlie can be pretty stubborn, when he believes in something."

Leach nodded, and risked his life again. "Obviously. I mean, look at the whole Pakistani e-mail thing."

Colby groaned behind the wheel and Don's head shot up. David started to unbuckle his seat belt, preparing to take out his own team leader before he annihilated an NSA agent, when Don surprised even himself. He sighed, and spoke quietly, to no-one in particular. "I don't know. Maybe Charlie was right about Morrison."

Colby was stopped at a red light, and turned incredulous eyes to Don. "Excuse me?"

Don shrugged and looked pensively through the front windshield. "Look, I'll be the first to admit that I was prepared not to like the guy. But he's been good to Charlie, and he's included me and Dad in his largesse; he seemed genuinely upset tonight." He looked around the interior of the vehicle until he had met everyone's eyes. "Didn't he seem surprised? Plus, he's got a pretty… blond… alibi."

The light changed and Colby eased the Suburban into traffic, "I don't know, Don," he began, but Don interrupted him.

His voice took on the hard tone of suspicion that David and Colby had learned to recognize long ago, as he turned his head back toward the window. "The one I'm hinky about is Ramon. There's something slimy about that guy. I swear to God, I saw him _smiling_ over Charlie's missing body!"

"He did seem…inappropriate," David agreed. "Plus, didn't Morrison's driver drop him at a bar between Charlie's house and the estate? Morrison was always with his driver; usually with one or two other witnesses, as well – but we still need to verify Ramon's missing hour."

Colby chuckled. "Well, obviously, at some point he picked up the lovely lady – but she didn't seem the type to hold out for a whole hour, ya know?"

In spite of himself, a grin played at Don's mouth and he grunted in agreement. It was a little after four in the morning, and the street as they approached the Craftsman was still quiet and dark. There was a street lamp between Charlie's house and his closest neighbor, though, and as the SUV drew closer to Charlie's house, he could clearly see old Mr. Henderson in its glow, struggling to drag a trash bin to the curb for pickup. "Park on the street," he instructed, and Colby quickly pulled the vehicle over.

Don didn't wait for his fellow agents; he simply trusted they would follow. He stepped lightly from the Suburban and called out quietly in the night, jogging toward Charlie's elderly neighbor. "Hey, Mr. H, let me get that for you," he offered when he had closed the gap between them, reaching for the trash bin. "Aren't you up a little late?" He smiled. "Or early?"

The stooped old man shoved his hands into the pockets of his ratty old sweater and spoke in a wavering voice. "Donny? That you, boy?"

Don leaned over a little so that the street lamp's light played off his facial features better. "Yeah, Mr. H," he affirmed. "These are some of my friends from work."

Mr. Henderson lifted somewhat watery eyes and smiled when he saw David. "I recognize that'un," he said. "He's been by the house before!" Agent Leach quietly took the trash can from Don and started dragging it to the street. "Nice young feller," noted Mr. Henderson. "What you Eppes boys doing up all night, anyway?"

Don's smile faltered. "Charlie's not with us, Mr. H."

The old man stomped a foot on the ground. "Course he ain't. Not quite blind yet, young man!" Colby chuckled and the neighbor peered at him for a moment. "You been here afore, too." Colby was nodding when Henderson continued. "Don't let yourselves grow old, boys, if you can help it. Up and down, all night. Can't sleep more than two hours at a time. Figured I might as well take the trash out this time." He looked up at Don. "That brother of yours came home in that big ol' fancy limo just before midnight, went straight to the garage. Light was still on out there when I went to bed the first time, around 12:30."

Don tilted his head. "You saw him?" he questioned. "You saw Charlie, or just the car?"

Henderson tilted his own head, frowning. "I seen that car there in the driveway, and watched the driver get out and let your brother out of the back – just like he's been doing the last month or so. Driver even walked him to the garage – which I thought was a nice touch, it bein' fairly late and all."

"Holy hell," Don mumbled. "Morrison was telling the truth."

"Don't let your father hear that kind of talk out of you, son," warned Charlie's elderly neighbor.

Don shook his head, still in a kind of shock at discovering that Charlie had indeed been brought home before his disappearance. This changed everything – and not for the better. "Right," he whispered to his feet. He raised a hand to rub at his forehead, and smiled again at Mr. Henderson. "If you don't rat me out, I'll walk you back to the house, Mr. H."

Henderson laughed, and pivoted slowly in the driveway. "Ah, now, Donny," he reprimanded. "Can't start telling all I know about you now; ain't gonna live that much longer."

**………………………………………………………………………………**

Bert Resin eyed the Styrofoam cups with a spark of interest in his eyes. "Figure I can get one of them?"

Walker deliberately drained his cup, not even wincing when the hot liquid burned a trail down his throat, and tossed the empty cup in a small trash receptacle near the door before he approached the interrogation table and perched casually on the end, just a few feet from the seated Resin. Wright was sipping his coffee more delicately, casually walking the perimeter of the small room, his own eyes always on the center of attention; the interrogation.

"I don't know if anyone will have time to brew another pot," Walker hedged. "Busy night – what with taking half the force to San Francisco and all, chasing an empty semi."

Resin shifted in his chair, but his feathers did not seem particularly ruffled. "Look, I got nothing to hide. Pretty much told you everything, already."

Walker smiled; an expression closer to a sneer. "My friend didn't hear you."

Resin glanced over his shoulder at Wright, reaching under his baseball cap to scratch his head again. He shoved back the chair a little so that he could divide his attention between Wright and Walker, and launched into a congenial explanation.

"Been a trucker most of my life. Used to work the long hauls; had my own rig. My wife was on the road with me." He smiled. "Elsa and Trixie, a little mutt we almost hit up near Spokane one Christmas. Just dashed across that highway, out in the middle of nowhere… Well, Elsa couldn't stand the thought of that poor little critter getting all smashed up forty miles from the nearest town, so we parked the rig at a rest stop and hiked back almost five miles, whistling and…"

Walker rolled his eyes and raised his voice. "Enough of the damn dog, already!"

Resin seemed to remember where he was, and pulled himself back together. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Anyways. Elsa took sick, couldn't live outta the truck no more – so I sold the rig and set her up in a little one-bedroom out in Covina. Said she wanted to live near L.A. She's got a niece who works in the movies, and Elsa thought it'd be nice if she was close enough for Greta to visit. So I tried working for some freighters, driving short hauls. Just didn't work out. Too unpredictable; sometimes I'd get stuck on a job and have to leave Elsa alone with just Trixie for near' a day."

Wright had finished his own coffee by now, but he stood somewhat mesmerized in the corner and waited for Resin to wind down.

Bert leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat, just getting started. "So 'bout a year ago, I was giving Greta an earful. She gave my name to some Big Wig Producer – Morrison." Wright's ears pricked up and he took a step closer, and Walker leaned in a little. Resin didn't seem to notice either response. "He passed it on to this other fella." A wide smile split his face and he looked from Walker to Wright, back to Walker again. "I tell you, this guy's crazy. He paid me – up front – to drive for him once every two months, for a year. Paid me _one-hundred-thousand dollars_. Cash."

Wright finally entered the conversation. "You weren't concerned that he wanted you to do something illegal?"

Resin shrugged. "Didn't much care. Didn't see that I was, neither. I knew I wasn't sneaking aliens or drugs over the border, the runs were all local. He has a fleet of semis; like I said, I ain't never had the same one twice." He suddenly shuddered, and looked uncomfortable for the first time. "Onliest part I didn't like was the pick-up. Some big ol' guy would come to the house and blindfold me, shove me to the floor in the back of some car and drive me out to the desert. Never knew where the hell I was. But every time, I'd find an empty semi just a-waitin' for me, a new GPS and downloaded directions all ready to go. Usually, I drove it somewhere fairly secluded near town – a closed business, say." He shook his head. "Fancy people all over the place. Some dressed to the nines, some half-naked…strangest thing I ever saw. I'd wait until the back of the rig – which was done up like some kind of ritzy bar on wheels – was full up, and then I'd deliver 'em to some warehouse."

Walker started to interrupt. "Where…"

Resin shook his head. "I can try to remember somethin' for ya, but I really didn't pay too much attention – I knew I'd never be goin' there again. He told me at the start that he had six revolving locations, and that I would never see the same one twice. At the end of the year, my services would no longer be needed…but if I did a good job and kept quiet, a nice bonus would be in it for me."

"Guess you don't need that anymore?" mumbled Walker. "I wouldn't exactly describe you as 'quiet'."

Resin's face fell, and he hung his head. "My Elsa done passed, 'most three months ago," he admitted sadly. "Poor little Trixie died of a broken heart not a month later. I sort-of figured I'd finish out this contract, sell the house and buy me another rig. Get back into long hauls."

Wright approached the table and sank wearily into a chair sitting a few feet away from Resin, who turned his own chair back toward the table and regarded the A.D. questioningly.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Wright recited formally, stumbling over his tongue at the end. "Losses."

Resin smiled sadly. "Thank-you. They were good girls, both of them."

Wright caught Walker's eye for a moment. "The Lieutenant can check on that coffee now, if you'd like," he offered kindly. "If there's none fresh, would you like something from the machine?"

"That'd be fine," agreed Resin amicably. Walker slid off the edge of the table and headed for the door. He was halfway through when he heard the driver make a counter-offer to Wright. "Say. Would it help you guys to know what he looked like?"

**……………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 26


	27. Hurry Up and Wait

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 27: ****Hurry Up and Wait**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**......................................................................  
**

Star sighed as she waited in line to board the semi that took the performers back to the complex. Performance nights generated mixed emotions – she looked forward to being out of the complex, and enjoyed dressing up in costume and wearing makeup. She absolutely loved to perform on stage – dancing for an audience under the dazzling lights, she could forget for a moment, transcend all the other aspects of her life. The only detraction from the night was the work after the performance – the time she spent entertaining clients in the back rooms. Tonight she'd been lucky – only one man had asked for her. Of course, that would mean reduced rewards for her in the week to come. It was okay, though, she told herself; a light week once in a while didn't hurt anything.

She saw heads turning; the performers in line in front of her were looking back past her, and she turned to see two of the guards, half-carrying a stumbling young man to the front of the line. He was wearing the uniform they all wore when not performing – baggy black knit pants, cut at the calf, and an olive colored cotton tunic, just as shapeless. He was not one of them, though, and her eyes widened in surprise as she got a better look. That dark curly hair … he was the young man from the week before – a customer – she was sure of it. She wouldn't forget him – she'd been highly embarrassed when he'd fled after she propositioned him in the back room. Someone told her later that he'd just run to the restroom because he was sick, but she was sure she'd seen a look of revulsion in his eyes. She'd felt ashamed the entire following week, and this week had taken extra care with her makeup – clearly she wasn't pretty enough. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing that only one man had asked for her this week, she fretted. What would happen to her if no one asked for her, if she couldn't earn her way? She had to prove herself worthy enough to graduate; she just had to!

She gave the young man a dark look as he passed, but her resentful look turned to one of grudging pity as she got a closer look. He was in pain, had obviously been beaten; had undoubtedly spent time with one of the rougher customers. He had also apparently been drugged, but even the dazed look on his face couldn't hide the expression in his eyes – confusion, fear, shock. She watched as the guards hustled him up the ramp into the truck, and they disappeared into its dim recesses.

When she boarded, she spotted him in a far corner, slumped against a side, and she got as close as the crowd would allow her, then positioned herself so she could watch him.

**……………………………………………………………………….**

Don sat hunched over his knees, head up, studying the pencil sketch of the man Resin called 'Mr. X,' which was taped to the white board. Colby and David sat with him, contemplating the artist's rendering in silence for a moment. "Doesn't ring a bell," said David, finally. "He's got to be a bigwig in the L.A. area, considering his clientele, but he doesn't look like anyone we're watching."

Don could feel impatience and fear rising, clawing their way up his insides. During the night, they'd been on the move – first in pursuit of the truck, then returning from San Francisco and heading straight to Morrison's estate. He'd already ordered a surveillance unit to be stationed outside Morrison's estate, and they were still waiting for the techs to analyze the GPS from Resin's semi. It was now ten a.m., all the movement and action had ground to a halt, and there was nothing they could do at this point but wait. The forced inactivity gave him time to think – and the more Don thought, the more frightened he was becoming.

Part of him kept hoping that Charlie would turn up somewhere. He couldn't understand why Mr. X would have let him go after finding the GPS chip in Charlie's wallet, but Morrison's story that he'd dropped Charlie off at home had given him hope. Maybe Mr. X had given Charlie a slap on the hand, and let him off the hook. After all, the man probably didn't know that Charlie had made it into the back rooms – Mr. X might think that Charlie didn't know about the illegal activities. Maybe Charlie had been able to spin some kind of story about the chip to get out of the jam. Then again, maybe Mr. X had just been waiting until Charlie was away from the other guests, and had let him get home before he'd dealt with him. Or maybe, Charlie's disappearance had nothing to do with the chip. God only knew, Don had a hard time predicting what he'd do next, lately. Hobnobbing with high society, drinking – maybe Charlie had simply gotten an offer to go to another party.

That seemed highly unlikely, even given his brother's recent unpredictability. Charlie would know he'd need to report out on the evening as soon as he got back. Something had to have happened, and knowing what was at stake, knowing what Mr. X had to lose if Charlie talked, made Don fear the worst. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and jerked upright as his cell phone vibrated. He flipped it open in a flash, and put it to his ear without checking the number. "Charlie?"

"No, Donny, it's me," came his father's voice, and it was all Don could do to suppress a look of dismay. God – Dad – what was he going to tell Dad?

"I'm at the airport – I was wondering if you could come and give me a lift home. I tried Charlie, but he wouldn't pick up."

Don shot an uneasy glance at David and Colby. "Uh, yeah, Dad, I'll come get you. Give me fifteen." He flipped the phone shut, and rose slowly from his seat. "Hold down the fort, okay? I've got go get my Dad at the airport."

Colby looked sympathetic. "I can get him if you want," he said. "I know you want to stay on top of this one."

Don shook his head and sighed. "No – if anyone's gonna break the news to him, it ought to be me. Just let me know right away if anything comes in."

He had just climbed into the driver's seat of his SUV when the phone rang again. He flipped it open and put it to his ear, and Amita's voice emanated from the earpiece. "Don – hi – do you know where Charlie is? He was supposed to pick me up at the airport this morning." She sounded a little perturbed. "He must be very busy -- did he get his clearance back? I sent him an e-mail and left voice mail on his phone with my flight details, but I never heard a word from him!"

Don's shoulders slumped, but he managed to reply, avoiding specifics as much as possible. "I'm heading there to pick up my Dad right now," he answered hurriedly. "I'll get you." He endured her thanks, plus another jab or two at his irresponsible brother, before he flipped the phone shut, and let his head hit the headrest, with a groan.

**…………………………………………………………………………………**

Ramon watched through narrowed eyes as the limousine swept down the driveway. To the feds stationed on Mulholland, it would look as though J.T. Morrison was riding in the rear seat; in fact, it was J.T.'s gardener, Sami, decked out in one of J.T.'s jackets, wearing sunglasses and a straw hat. The limo windows were darkened, and Sami would easily pass for J.T. – possibly even in daylight, from a distance; he had the same color dark hair, the same muscular build – even their chins were similar. J.T. had set up the ruse, and Ramon wondered why. He made his way quietly into the hallway outside J.T.'s den, and listened as Morrison spoke into the phone. "They followed it? And you think there was just the one surveillance vehicle? Good."

Ramon slipped down the hallway, brooding, and after a moment's thought, headed for his own car. He was in it and waiting when he saw J.T. come out and instead of going toward his private garage, head for the servant parking area. Ramon actually had to duck down in the seat to avoid being seen. When he heard an engine, he lifted his head just enough to peer over the dash, and saw Morrison in Sami's battered gray Ford, wearing a baseball cap and Sami's cheap shades. He gave Morrison a few minutes, and then followed; speeding until he caught sight of him on Mulholland, and then dropping back to a safe distance.

J.T. was tough to follow - in spite of the fact that the FBI stakeout car had followed the limousine; Morrison was obviously keeping an eye out for a tail. Fortunately, Ramon's silver Toyota was so common a vehicle as to be unremarkable; it blended in with the city landscape. He managed to keep sight of J.T, although as the gray Ford headed toward the outskirts of the city, he was forced to drop back even further. Finally, at a remote truck stop, the Ford pulled over. Ramon drove past and parked several yards down the road, pulling up in front of a shabby liquor store, where he waited and watched. After a few moments, a van pulled up and two men stepped out; Ramon recognized them as bouncers from Fantasy. Morrison got out of the Ford and spoke to them briefly, then climbed in the back of the van, which was windowless.

Ramon's jaw clenched. He could guess where Morrison was going; he'd known it in his gut all along, but he hadn't wanted to admit it. J.T. was undoubtedly going to visit the professor – wherever they'd taken him. Sorry little puke – and J.T. was obsessed with him, Ramon could see it in his eyes. J.T. had looked at Ramon like that once upon a time.

Biting his lip, he sat there while the van drove past him. His inclination was to follow, but the landscape was getting increasingly remote, and he'd be easy to spot. Plus, what would he do once he got there? There would undoubtedly be security – it wasn't as if he could enter. Brimming with frustration, he threw the Toyota into reverse, swerved out of the lot with a screech of tires, and headed back to L.A.

**………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don had planned to break the news at the Craftsman. He'd decided he would tell both of them at once, and he would need a quiet private setting to do that. They actually made it as far as his SUV in the short-term parking lot at LAX.

The luggage was loaded into the vehicle, and Don had helped a now-anxious Amita into the back seat. Alan climbed in the passenger seat, and immediately fixed him with an accusing glare, as Don slid in behind the wheel. "I can't understand what there would be to tell," protested Alan. "Don't tell me he's too hung over to function again."

Don sighed, and his shoulders slumped with surrender. "Okay, okay." He took a deep breath. "Charlie's missing."

"Missing?" Alan and Amita both asked at once. Don could feel their eyes on him, trying to gauge the severity of the situation.

"Did you call Morrison's estate? Maybe Alan's right – he had a little too much again." Amita's voice held a mixture of tension and sarcasm.

"No, he's not at Morrison's estate." Don hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, then gave up, and went right to the point. "Look, Charlie was working an undercover assignment. While-,"

"What?" interrupted Alan. "Undercover assignment? For whom? His clearance was revoked!"

"The NSA offered to help him get it back if Charlie worked with them," Don responded. The thought that Charlie had actually wanted to quit, and had only kept working the case because he thought it would help his brother, reared its ugly head, and Don's gut twisted at the reminder. His voice tightened. "While he was hanging around with Morrison, he found out about an illegal party that rotates to different locations. When he actually got an invitation, the NSA stepped in, and asked him to help them track it down. I guess they've been working the case for months."

He could see Amita's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror, and Alan was staring at him, his brow furrowed. "You'd think the NSA would have bigger fish to fry than tracking down a party," he huffed.

Don shook his head. "This wasn't just any party, Dad. It was by invitation only, and many of the guests never even made it past the front area, which from the sounds of it, only offered legitimate entertainment. The back rooms are another story – the patrons who are approved to enter have access to illegal gambling, drugs, and prostitutes. The NSA believes that the people who run it traffic in not only drugs, but humans – the prostitutes are slaves, some of them children. The NSA has been desperate to track down a location, but the guests are all handpicked, by invitation only – they're all wealthy, and most of them would probably rather die than admit they attended the event. Morrison got Charlie an invitation and Charlie went in last night in order to get the location for the NSA. According to Morrison, he was brought home at around 11:45 a.m. Mr. Henderson was taking his trash out when we stopped by at 4:00 a.m., and confirmed the story – he said he saw Charlie getting dropped off."

"He was taking out his trash at four in the morning?" asked Amita.

Alan grunted. "I've seen that man out gardening in the middle of the night." His expression brightened. "So, maybe Charlie went somewhere else after he was dropped off."

"No, Dad." Don looked at him regretfully. "Something's wrong. The NSA had put a GPS chip in Charlie's wallet so they could follow him to the party. They ship the guests to the location in a furnished semi. We followed the semi that was emitting the signal, and found the chip and Charlie's cell phone, but no guests – and no Charlie. Someone had apparently discovered the chip, and sent us, the NSA, LAPD, and SWAT on a wild goose chase, all the way up to 'Frisco. We got the driver, but he doesn't know much – says he gets his driving orders by pre-programmed GPS. Plus, Charlie never called in a report. We haven't seen him since he was taken to the pickup point last night."

Alan had paled, and Don was so consumed with watching his father's reaction, he was completely unprepared for the rolled up magazine that descended on his head. He flinched, and looked in the rearview mirror to find Amita's eyes in the reflection, filled with fury. "How could you?" she hissed. "How could you let him do something like this?"

"I tried to talk him out of it," Don retorted, and slightly disconcerted that she'd actually hit him. "He wouldn't listen." '_At least, I didn't think he did_,' he thought to himself, sadly. '_Face it; he's in this because of me._'

Alan was staring at him. "So what's going on? What are they doing to find him?"

"We already talked to Morrison – his story checks out, and he's got an alibi for the time period after he dropped Charlie off. We're watching him, and they're trying to see if they can find anything programmed into the semi's GPS that might tell us something. The truck driver gave us a sketch of the man who runs the party. We're doing everything we can."

Alan had turned to stare out the windshield with a dazed expression. "He's all right. He's just still out somewhere, maybe had a little too much again, and is sleeping it off. He'll turn up."

Don was silent. The more time that passed, the less likely that scenario was becoming, and he could tell by the fearful look in Amita's eyes, that she thought so, too.

**……………………………………………………………………..**

Charlie tensed as footsteps sounded in the hallway, frozen curled on his side on the mattress, and slowly relaxed as they receded. The drug had gradually worn off, and as his consciousness had sharpened, he'd been able to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a room, about sixteen by thirty feet. It had a wooden floor, and no windows, one door, and was furnished simply, with a bed and a chair, and a tiny table that held a plastic pitcher of water and a plastic cup. A bedpan sat in the corner; he'd used it once, and the smell of urine was a faint undertone in the air. They'd dressed him in something that made him think of Chinese peasants – cropped knit pants and a tunic, but at least he was dressed.

He had no idea of what time it was. He had no watch, no view of the outside, and his sense of time had been completely muddled by the drug they had given him. The door was locked; he'd already tried it, and he could tell by the occasional sound of the feet that passed by that it let out into a hallway of some type.

He hurt all over. His body was a collection of bruises, cuts, and blisters, and judging from the sharp aches, he possibly had at least one broken rib and a broken ring finger on his left hand. He felt heavy, weak, full of pain, and most of all, dirty. If he could, he would crawl out of his body and leave it lying there, like a soiled piece of laundry on the bed. He could still feel the shame, the humiliation of the assault, and he closed his eyes at the memory.

Why he was still alive, he had no idea. He suspected he was being held at the same place that the _Fantasy_ performers were kept; he had a dim recollection of being unloaded from the semi with them, although where they had gone after that, he didn't know. Not that it mattered – he was miserable, too miserable to be concerned. No, he had no idea of why they'd kept him alive, but he really didn't care. He wanted to die.

**…………………………………………………………………..**

End Chapter 27


	28. Don't Touch Me

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 28: Don't Touch Me**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**.................................................................  
**

The van wound its way through the arid landscape, pausing at a gate; then continuing on gravel road for another two miles, clouds of dust rising from the tires, into the California sun. The complex sat on several square miles of desert to the southwest of L.A., in a no-man's-land of rocky ground, dotted with scrub, cactus, and yucca. Morrison rode in the back, which was dark and windowless. Markus trusted no one, not even his oldest associates, and although he was allowing J.T. to visit, he was making sure that Morrison had no idea of where the complex was actually located.

At length, the van hit pavement again, and finally the vehicle stopped. The rear doors opened, and Morrison climbed out, blinking in the blazing sunlight. Markus was standing there, waiting, and stepped forward with a lifted eyebrow. "I didn't expect you so soon, after last night," he said, the words laced with just a hint of disapproval.

Morrison grinned wolfishly. "Last night was just a warm-up," he countered. He flexed his shoulders and looked around him. Before them was one section of the complex, which consisted of a huge, one-storied building with several wings – more like a school building than a house. A few outbuildings were scattered around it, and to their left was an open area containing a track and what looked like a basketball court, without baskets, covered with a black rubber-like surface. An exercise yard, and practice area for the gymnasts, Morrison realized, as they turned and headed for a doorway. "Where is he?"

"We're keeping him in the wing where the staff stays," said Markus. "He'll eat with the performers, but we want to limit his exposure to them. We don't need him to give them any ideas."

"Is he awake?"

Markus nodded. "There's a surveillance camera in the room. He's been awake for a while now, but he hasn't been moving much. We can stop by the surveillance room – I have a loaded syringe there, and some restraints."

"I'll take the syringe, but I might not use it this time," replied J.T. "I might need some help from some of your men, though." He threw a glance behind him at the two goons trailing them. "I tip well."

"Certainly," murmured Markus. He glanced sideways at Morrison, and the eager light in the man's eyes gave him a feeling of disquiet. Morrison's obsession bordered on the irrational. Outwardly, he seemed in control, but Markus wondered, not for the first time, if that was really true. Anyone who would go these lengths to indulge in this sick behavior had to be at least a bit unstable. But then, he could say that about most of his clientele. That depraved side of their natures was what kept him in business.

**…………………………………………………………………….**

Don had dropped Amita off at her apartment, and was at the Craftsman with Alan when the call came from Colby. "Don, the results of the GPS analysis just came back. The thing's brand new apparently, but it did have one other program in it. The program had been deleted, but not eradicated; the techs found a way to bring it back up. We think it's the directions to where the party was held last night."

Don sent a meaningful look toward Alan. "Okay, I'm on my way. Let Walker know – get a team together. We'll meet at LAPD headquarters." He flipped his phone shut.

"What?" asked Alan; a mixture of hope and trepidation on his face.

"We think we have a location for the party last night," said Don, heading for the door. "I'll tell you if we find anything. Let me know if you hear from Charlie."

With that, he was out the door, leaving Alan standing, shoulders sagging, in the silent house.

**…………………………………………………………………..**

Charlie froze at the sound of voices outside the door, and slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. This time the door swung open; he felt his heart lurch, and he rose to his feet, defensively. As J.T.'s face appeared around the door, his gut flooded with panic, so potent that for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

J.T.'s face was wreathed in a wicked smile, and he strolled slowly forward, flanked by two burly guards. "Charlie. How was the rest of your evening? Did you miss me?"

He stopped in front of Charlie, too close, and Charlie tried to back up, but could only manage an inch before the backs of his legs made contact with the bed. Morrison stepped closer, almost touching, and reached up toward his face, but Charlie batted his hand away and jerked his head back. The feeble resistance prompted the guards, eager to earn their 'tip.' They darted forward, each of them grabbing one of Charlie's arms. Morrison grinned and reached forward again, trailing his fingertips down Charlie's cheek, then gave it a light pat. "That's better," he murmured. "You didn't answer my question, Charlie. Did you miss me?"

Charlie managed to find his voice, at least partially; it came out as a hoarse whisper. "Don't touch me."

"Oh, now, that isn't nice!" purred Morrison "After what we've shared together!" He leaned forward, and Charlie averted his face as Morrison's lips grazed his cheek. "Don't tell me you didn't like it. We both know better," J.T. breathed in his ear, and his smile deepened as he watched Charlie close his eyes, his face filled with humiliation and pain. Straightening, Morrison stepped back and spoke briskly to the guards. "Help him out of his clothes, and put on his restraints." His gaze roved over Charlie avariciously. "Time for a little fun."

**…………………………………………………………………………………..**

There was no question of who was driving this time, or for that matter, who was leading the caravan of police vehicles out into the desert. Colby glanced sideways at Don, who was leaning forward over the wheel, his hands gripping it tightly, as if by doing so he could will the vehicle to get there sooner. His SAC was setting a blistering pace for the rest of the group, flying down the remote roads at well over the speed limit, his light flashing. He only slowed as they reached the group of warehouses, scanning them as he maneuvered the vehicle between them.

David glanced at the printout in his lap and pointed. "There – the last one on the right."

Don pulled in front of the building, and several of the vehicles flowed around him, jockeying for position around the large warehouse. It looked deserted and there was no sign of any vehicles, Don noted with disappointment, but they were taking no chances. All of them were decked out in flak jackets and tactical gear, and they poured from their vehicles to reconnoiter.

Don gathered with Lieutenant Walker and the captain of the SWAT team, and quickly separated the men into teams. He led one himself, chafing impatiently as he waited for the SWAT team captain, who had been elected ops leader, to give the command to enter. He felt a hand on his arm, and looked to his right to see David's face, filled with concern. "Don, maybe you should sit this one out, at least until we see what's in there," he said quietly.

Don gave a savage shake of his head. He knew what David was implying, and he refused to believe it. Charlie was still alive – he could feel it. "No way," he muttered back, and at that moment, he got the command on his headset. He swiveled to face his team. "All right, let's approach – we're going in on my command."

A moment later, they were through the door, fanning out through the echoing building. The decorations and props were gone, for the most part, although the basic structures were still in place – partitions separated a large area in at the front of the building from several smaller rooms in back. Walker moved up next to Don, glancing around the cavernous room. "This must be where they held the acrobatic show," he said. He pointed at the ceiling. "They still have some of the trapeze fixtures up there – probably too much trouble to take them down. I imagine that they plan to rotate back to this location eventually."

Don nodded absently; his eyes were fixed on an entrance that led down a side hallway, to the back rooms. He could see Colby and David heading through it, and with a look at Walker, he followed them at a trot, with Walker behind him. Down the length of the hallway, SWAT team members were already bursting into rooms, and sounds of "Clear! Clear!" echoed down the hall.

It took only moments to determine that the rooms were empty, and as Don darted into the last one behind David and Colby, his shoulders sagged dejectedly as he saw that it too, was empty. He told himself that it was a good thing they hadn't found Charlie there – if they had, more than likely they would have been faced with a body. Not to find anyone or anything that gave them a clue as to where to go next, however, was supremely disappointing. They just stood for a moment, looking at the room – there were screw holes in the walls, as if equipment of some kind had been attached to them. Most of the other rooms were finished; they had tile or carpet on the floor – this one had only concrete.

"I wonder what was in here," mused Colby.

David knelt, and touched the concrete floor with a fingertip, then lifted his hand and gazed at the finger. "Blood," he said. "There are a few drops of blood on the floor, most of them dry."

Don stared at him for a moment, nonplussed; then got control of himself. "Get a tech in here," he commanded, "and keep everyone else out. I want this room swept."

They nodded and trotted out, and Don stood there, staring at the room around him. '_It's someone else's blood_,' he told himself. '_Morrison didn't say anything about Charlie being injured when he dropped him off._'

**………………………………………………………………………………..**

They were some of the longest days that Don could remember. The warehouse yielded nothing – there was enough evidence to prove that it had indeed been a _Fantasy_ venue, but there was nothing there to indicate where the performers and Mr. X had gone from there. Two days after the raid, they were still without a clue. Worse, they were still without Charlie. Any hope that he'd gone somewhere of his own accord that night had vanished. They had to face the fact that he was either dead, or being held against his will. During the day, Don held grimly to the belief that it was the latter – that Charlie was still alive somewhere. At night, alone in his apartment after a daily painful visit to his father, he gave in to doubt, demons, and more than one belt of whiskey.

The initial results on the blood samples had come back, indicating they were from a male of Charlie's blood type, but DNA took longer, and that result hadn't come back yet. Tuesday morning, Don sat scowling at the meager notes that constituted the case file, nursing a cup of coffee and a hangover. There had to be something there, something they were missing. The blood find kept sticking in his mind, like a burr under a saddle. If it really did turn out to be Charlie's, Morrison's story was suspect.

He turned and barked at Colby, louder than he intended. "Anything new on the surveillance on Morrison?"

Colby eyed him warily, as if he were afraid that his scowling SAC might jump up and punch him in the nose. "No. Sunday, he went to Burbank to an indoor market for a while in his limo. Yesterday, he didn't go anywhere. Today he's in Hollywood for a meeting – our guys tell me he's there right now."

"I want to talk to him again, and this time, I want him in here," growled Don. "Pick him up as soon as he's done with his meeting." His request seemed irrational, he knew – there was nothing to indicate that Morrison was involved – in fact, he seemed truly concerned; he had been calling the Craftsman daily, asking Alan if there had been any progress. There was another person, however, who was of even greater interest – Ramon. Don wanted to see if he could find a chink in Ramon's story, and the best way to do that was to start with the other participants in the tale – Morrison, and Ramon's woman 'guest.'

Colby was about to walk out, and Don said, "Hold up – I'm not finished yet. After you get Morrison lined up, get Ramon Mendez' woman in here – Sheri Sanders. I want her account of the evening, including timeline. After we get the particulars from them, I want to talk to Ramon. We need to see if his story jives with the rest."

Colby gave him a brisk nod, his wary look turning to one of appreciation – he'd clearly been as frustrated with the lack of progress as Don was. "You got it," he shot back, and headed out the door with a purposeful stride.

Within an hour, which was noteworthy considering L.A. traffic, he and David were back with J.T. Morrison. Don had to admit, the man seemed perfectly willing to cooperate – coming in immediately, with no notice. Because Charlie had trusted J.T., Don was trying hard to do so, also, but he still couldn't shake the underlying feeling that there was something wrong with the man. Maybe it was his obvious alternative lifestyle – Morrison's guest that night had been a young man, although Don liked to think that he wouldn't hold that against him. Still, even if he thought he was innocent, he wasn't going to pull any punches. After all, this was Charlie.

He had decided to do the questioning himself, and went in with David, while Colby kept watch through the one-way glass. Don was polite, but he purposely didn't offer his hand to Morrison, and sat across from him at the table; his manner businesslike. Before he could speak, Morrison did; his eyes troubled. "Have you found anything?"

Don regarded him for a moment. '_Let's see how he reacts to this_,' he thought, and he spoke, his expression was guarded, his voice flat. "Actually, we did. We found the last location of _Fantasy_ on Sunday. It was programmed into the GPS we found with the semi."

Morrison leaned forward. "Really!" he exclaimed. "And did you find anyone there?"

'_Didn't miss a beat_,' Don thought to himself, with an odd sense of disappointment. Either Morrison was innocent, or he was one hell of an actor. "No, no one."

Morrison looked crestfallen. "I can't get over this," he sighed. "If anything has happened to him, it will be all my fault. I'm the one who invited him to the party. I'd been to them twice before, and never saw anything illegal, although I admit, I never had a pass to the back rooms. If only I'd known…," his voice trailed off sadly.

Don exchanged a look with David, and Sinclair leaned forward, his hands on the table. "We would like to make sure we have the timeline in order that evening. You left for the party at what time?"

Morrison reflected. "I believe we picked Charlie up at around six. We got to the check-in point near six-thirty. By the time they processed all of us and we boarded, it was probably seven, which was the scheduled departure time. Maybe a little later. We stayed at the party until about 10:30 – as I said, I was trying to get back to visit with Avian, and we got back to the limo at 11:15; then there was the half hour drive to Pasadena. We dropped Charlie off at 11:45 p.m."

Don's eyes narrowed. "And Ramon was with you the entire time?"

"Up to that point, yes. He decided to stay out, and the driver dropped him off at a nearby bar halfway home."

"And what time did he return to the house with his – guest?" asked David.

Morrison gazed upward, contemplating. "Oh, it was probably about one-thirty or so."

"So, allowing for travel time, there is a little over an hour, almost an hour and a half, during which Ramon is unaccounted for," said Don, leaning forward slightly.

J.T. chuckled. "Well, I imagine he was working his charms on Sheri during that time period. He must have been successful – he brought her back with him." His smile faded at the look on Don's face, and his eyes widened. "Oh, surely you don't think Ramon had anything to do with this!"

"I'm not thinking anything," Don returned mildly. "I'm just getting facts." He sat back in his chair. "Tell me, when you left the party, did Charlie appear to be injured in any way?"

For the first time, Don saw a flicker of something crafty in the other man's eyes, and then it was gone, swept away by a sympathetic smile. "Why yes," he said. "At one point, he walked up to us and he had some cocktail napkins wrapped around his finger – he said he'd dropped his glass, and when he tried to pick up the pieces, he cut his finger. He said it was nothing, but I insisted that he get it bandaged – it was soaking through the napkins. Why?"

Don frowned, and his eyes met David's briefly before turned back to Morrison. "There were a few drops of blood at the scene – we're not sure that they're Charlie's yet."

Morrison raised his eyebrows. "Well, they certainly could be." He leaned forward, earnestly. "I wish you luck – you really have to find him. To lose him – it would be tragic."

**………………………………………………………………..**

End, Chapter 28


	29. Anticipation

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 29: Anticipation **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**......................................................................  
**

Charlie moved slowly down the hallway, each step small, painful, weak, shaking. He could smell food wafting from the doorway in front of him, and hear the din of voices. The guard next to him stopped him at the door. "Remember, you need to limit how much you speak to them. You can listen, but you can't tell them about the outside. We don't need you putting any ideas in their heads."

Charlie nodded blankly, so immersed in misery, he scarcely heard the man. His mind was telling him he was in a state of semi-shock, and in no mood to eat, but his body was telling him he needed food – he wasn't sure what day it was, but he knew that more than one had passed since Saturday, which was the last time he'd eaten. The world was a blur of pain – he couldn't even think straight, and as the guard guided him toward the doorway, he hobbled forward dazedly.

**……………………………………………………………………..**

Star set her lunch tray on the cafeteria table and slid onto the bench seat next to one of her friends, an older girl named Hyacinth. As Star picked up her spoon, preparing to dig into her lunchtime portion of tofu vegetable stew, she heard the normal din of the room suddenly lessen, and saw heads swivel toward the doorway. She glanced sideways and froze, staring, as the young man she'd seen the night of the show shuffled slowly in, accompanied by a guard. She hadn't seen him since that night, although there were rumors that some of the male performers had seen him being helped into the shower room early that morning. They said he looked as though he'd been beaten; that he could barely walk without help, and that appeared to be true; the young man moved slowly, painfully. Star watched, fascinated, as he got a tray, and was escorted toward the seats. He stopped for a moment, staring dully at his tray, as the guard looked for an empty spot, and Star suddenly scooted over, butting up hard against Hyacinth. "Move over," she hissed, and then looked back at the guard.

To her satisfaction, he'd seen the opening, and they moved toward the table. The stranger set down his tray – his hands were shaking, Star noticed – and then with agonizing slowness, lowered himself onto the seat next to her. The guard retreated, backing up to the wall behind them, but he kept his eyes on the young man, who was staring down at his lunch, in dumb misery. His face was unmarked, Star noticed, except for two faint dark circles under his eyes, but she could see bruises on his wrists and arms, and imagined, from the way that he was moving, that there were more under his clothes.

The others at the table were staring at him with undisguised curiosity. Star waved her spoon at him. "Hi, I'm Star," she said, and then pointed to her left with her spoon. "This is Hyacinth, and," she pointed across the table to a young man of about twenty-three, "that's Mercury. What's your name?"

The young man had slowly raised his eyes while she talked, as if it hadn't occurred to him right away that he was being spoken to, and he stared at her a moment blankly, then shot a quick glance behind him. "Charlie," he said, quietly, and then looked down at his food.

Star cocked her head at him. "Oh, you still have your outside name," she said. She paused, reflecting for a moment. "I used to have one, but I can't remember it."

Mercury snorted sardonically. "I can't even remember having one. Of course, you're only ten."

Star sniffed at him, and then looked at Charlie, who had taken a spoonful of his stew with a shaking hand. "You're old," she said. "Everyone usually graduates by your age."

Charlie had managed to get the spoonful of stew into his mouth, and he swallowed; then looked at her, a look of faint surprise seeping through the pain in his face. "Graduates?"

She looked at him as if he were stupid. "Of course. Once you reach twenty-five, or before, if they think you're ready, you graduate. You get to go back out into the outside."

The young man was looking at them doubtfully, sadly, and Star bristled a little. "It's true," she insisted. "We learn dance and performing arts, here, and when we work after the show we earn credits. Our credits add up to money – when we graduate, they help us find a job performing, and we get our money to start out our new lives." She pointed her spoon at Mercury. "Mercury's gonna graduate in a couple of days."

Mercury grinned cockily. "Yep. Can't wait." His eyes glinted slyly as he looked at Star. "Of course, the rate you're going, kid, you ain't never gonna graduate. How come no one's askin' for you after the show – you givin' them the evil eye or something?"

Star scowled. "Jasmine says I'm just in that in-between age. I don't have boobs yet, so the guys that want older girls don't want me, and I'm too old for the ones who want younger girls."

Beside her, the young man named Charlie choked, and she glanced at him defensively, thinking he was laughing at her. Instead, he looked upset, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the same expression she'd seen the first night they'd met; there was horror and revulsion in his eyes. Maybe she _was _disgusting, she thought sadly, then sighed, and jutting out her jaw resolutely, dug into her stew. Maybe if she ate enough, she'd get some curves.

**…………………………………………………..............**

J.T. Morrison waited until he was halfway back to his estate, well away from the FBI offices, before he pulled out his cell phone. He sat there for a moment, hesitating. He really should tell Markus that the feds had found one of the _Fantasy_ performance sites, but he was afraid that Markus would get cold feet, and refuse to let him visit Charlie. Morrison had seen the young professor Sunday after the show, and had snuck out again on Monday, again dressed as Sami, the gardener. Today was Tuesday, and he had too many meetings to make the visit – and the knowledge was nearly killing him. The professor was like a drug, and the more J.T. had of him, the more he wanted. He spent the hours away from him playing and replaying the video that Ramon had taken at _Fantasy_ on Saturday night, and it was barely enough to keep him sane until he could visit again.

At length, he decided that he needed to come clean – Markus still had an agent in the FBI offices, and the man would probably report that J.T. had been there. With a sigh, he slid his phone open and punched in Markus' number, and as the man answered, said, "I just came from an interview with the feds."

"I heard," replied Markus, dryly. "And?"

"And nothing," replied J.T. smoothly. "They don't suspect me at all – although I think they are checking into Ramon a little more closely. It doesn't matter – he has an alibi. They won't get anywhere." He took a deep breath. "I do need to tell you, however, that they found last Saturday's _Fantasy_ site."

"What?" exclaimed Markus. His voice sounded tight, angry, and J.T. could imagine the expression.

"They found the GPS with the semi – the route was still programmed into it."

Markus swore. "I told the men to tell that idiot truck driver to take the GPS with him and dump it!" There was thump, as if he'd thrown something in anger, and more cursing.

J.T. paused for a moment, trying to figure out his next statement. "It's not a big deal – I don't think they have anything, or they wouldn't be dragging me in again." He decided not to tell Markus about the blood – anyway, that would not be an issue, after his brilliant lie about Charlie cutting his hand on a glass. Even if the DNA showed the blood to be Charlie's, he'd covered that neatly with the story. The thought brought back memories of what he'd really done to make the young man bleed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Then he spoke into the phone, his voice husky. "I'll be out again tomorrow as planned. There are no issues on this end."

"I don't know," said Markus crossly. "I think you should lay low for a while."

"Nonsense," responded Morrison, his voice brisk. "They have no idea – the gardener disguise works like a charm. And if you don't let me visit, I may just have to rethink my position with the feds."

The statement was met with silence, and he held his breath for a moment – perhaps he'd pushed things too far. Then Markus' voice came on the line, disgruntled, but calmer. "Don't be ridiculous. You know that wouldn't do either of us any good. All right – just be careful."

"Of course I will," said J.T. "Tomorrow, then." He slid his phone shut, and sat back with smile, and a sigh of relief. Tomorrow – he couldn't wait. Of course, the pent up longing would make their reunion all the more enjoyable.

**…………………………………………………………………………………**

Alan sat at the kitchen table, an untouched mug of tea before him, and stared at Charlie's empty chair. He had been looking at it for so long, his eyes had gone slightly blurry – and the tea had long-since grown cold. Yet he had somehow achieved an almost Zen-like connection to his youngest son, and he could no more look away from the chair than he could blow his own brains out.

He could feel his son's physical pain, his emotional distress, an almost mind-numbing fear. He concentrated on absorbing it all, as if he could psychically transfer the burdens from Charlie to himself. He tried to send Charlie images of peace to replace the images of terror: The koi, languidly completing their patterns in a protected ecosystem that was nearly danger-free, where all their needs were met. The night sky on a clear evening, through the lens of the high-powered telescope set up in the solarium. Ocean waves, breaking solidly and constantly against the cliffs at Carmel. The smiling and loving faces of those Charlie depended upon the most; himself, Margaret, Don, Amita, Larry. Memories. Good memories, that Alan was sure were seared into Charlie's brain as much as they were his. Don and Charlie building a sandcastle – using plans drawn out in crayon by Charlie the night before – while Alan and Margaret shook their heads and watched, the entire family baking happily in the sun at Pismo Beach. An older Don and Charlie, seeing snow for the first time, the winter they spent Christmas in Seattle with Margaret's cousin. The holy trinity of Alan, Margaret and Charlie, perched in the stands watching a uniformed Don play ball on the diamond below, bursting with pride.

Oh, how Alan longed for Charlie to feel only these things. Safety, love, happiness…above all, hope. A tear rolled down the father's cheek, as he tried his best to send his son hope.

**…………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Uncomfortably full, Charlie rolled over on the thin mattress and stared miserably at the wall, waiting for J.T. to make another appearance. He had been so wrong about the movie producer – and everyone else had been so right. He sniffed, his nearly-healed broken nose barely protesting, then gasped a little as an image of Donny entered his mind.

He could see the two of them together, as if watching a home movie. Don was eleven, Charlie was six, and they were at Pismo Beach. Don was seriously consulting some plans Charlie had scribbled for a sand castle, and Charlie was working from memory. It was serious business. The two of them took turns running out to the water's edge with Charlie's pail, bringing back buckets of water so that they could compact the sand. Their mother and father lounged under a beach umbrella about twenty feet away, smiling and holding hands, watching their sons' progress. Occasionally, their little hands would meet as they sculpted. Donny's nose was sunburned, but he dimpled at Charlie and tousled his unruly hair when they were finished with the main castle. "Let's add a moat," the older brother suggested, and the younger eagerly nodded his head, digging his hands into the warm and giving sand.

Twenty-five years later, Charlie slowly closed his eyes but continued to watch the video play on in his mind, and for the first time in a week, fell into a restful sleep, with a smile on his face.

**…………………………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 29

_A/N: This was a short chapter, so be on the lookout for a bonus!!_


	30. A Godless Inconvenience

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 30: A Godless Inconvenience **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**…………………………………………………………………………**

Timmons was expecting the call.

He was already sitting on his couch, a bottle of Jack in one hand and his cell in the other. The bottle was almost a third down when the phone began to vibrate. He took a final chug for stamina, and didn't even bother to check his 'caller I.D.'

"Timmons."

"You should have kept me informed."

Timmons had already ingested enough alcohol to allow a brief sarcastic snort to escape him. "Right. I tried explaining to the SAC that I needed to take a quick break, so that I could instigate the convoluted relay system involved when I initiate contact with Mr. X -- the very target of an active investigation -- and leak all pertinent information to him; but my boss just didn't understand."

A few seconds of silence greeted his speech, and then Markus continued as if it had never happened. "You are paid very well to take certain risks."

Timmons closed his eyes and held the bottle to his forehead, hoping to somehow absorb another hit of whiskey. "Well, heads-up," he finally responded wearily. "You'd better keep Saul under wraps for a while."

Markus kept any note of alarm from entering his voice, even though Saul was one of his most-trusted and important couriers. "Indeed?"

Timmons sighed, lowering the bottle. "Yeah. Resin worked with a sketch artist. They think it's you, but I recognized Saul right away."

"Of course," Markus mused. "Saul often handles the payments for me, and he coordinates the drivers. This is truly an inconvenience."

"If I were you, I'd suspend operations for awhile anyway," Jack advised.

This time Markus sighed in put-upon aggrievance. "I likely will," he conceded. His voice hardened. "I need you to take care of Resin."

Timmons was so surprised he almost dropped the bottle, and his eyes shot open wide. "Beg pardon?"

Markus confirmed his request. "You heard me."

Jack leaned forward a little, frowning. "But…he won't be able to do any more damage than what he's already done. The GPS, the picture of Saul – he's given them all he has!"

"Exactly," Markus purred. "For this betrayal he must suffer retribution. He now has a personal debt to pay. In addition, my other employees may need an example, during this difficult time."

Timmons stood, and began to pace his small living room. "Look, it's one thing to leak information. Murder is entirely different."

"Is it?" Markus sounded genuinely interested. "Do your employers also draw a definitive line there? When evidence of your transgressions over the years is delivered to your Mr. Wright in the morning, will he congratulate you for never having killed anyone?" Without waiting for a response, he hardened his tone. "Eppes' brother has been repeatedly drugged. Beaten. Raped." He allowed a few seconds of silence to underscore his last revelation. "These things have happened, in no small part, due to your cooperation and assistance. I assure you, it is documented in the file I shall have delivered."

Timmons swayed a little at the end of the couch and sunk heavily into the cushions before he fell down. He clutched the bottle of Jack harder. "Raped?" he whispered. "I thought…"

Markus interrupted. "You thought what, my dear man? That I simply wanted to kidnap him to slap him on the wrist for nearly destroying my livelihood?" He laughed, bitterly. "I'm sure some wrist-slapping has been involved – but you'd have to confirm that with Morrison."

Timmons swallowed, sickened. "My God," he murmured.

"Oh, I doubt that your God or anyone else's is here at the moment," Markus remarked almost jovially. "Now. Tell me. Should I prepare the file for delivery, or are you ready to talk business?"

**………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Robin accompanied Don to his father's after work. The loosely-knit plan involved making sure the older man was eating and taking care of himself – but that all flew out of Don's head when he let himself and Robin in the kitchen door of the Craftsman.

Amita and Alan sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table. Alan just looked confused – shell-shocked, even. Amita sat primly back in the chair a few feet from the table, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression when she looked up at Don reminded him of someone who had taken a huge and unsuspecting bite of something sour, and bitter. He hesitated in the doorway, barely allowing enough room for Robin to prod him forward and close the door.

"Hey," he greeted, trying to smile.

Amita slowly stood and turned to face him fully, her visage dark and accusing. Her voice trembled with anger. "It's all over campus, you know. How could you even hope that I wouldn't hear about your fight with Charlie? Dane told me you_ broke_ his _nose_ – and Millie confirmed it!"

Don's shoulders sagged, but he felt Robin's steadying hand at his back. "It was part of the set-up," he explained lamely. He shot a glance toward his father. "I told you Charlie was undercover."

Alan shook his head, as if trying to relieve a ringing in his ears. He looked up at his son with an expression that said he felt the pain of Charlie's broken nose himself. "I don't understand," he said in a voice that clearly said he did not. "You had to break your brother's nose in order for him to go undercover?"

Don leaned back a little so that he could feel the pressure of Robin's hand more firmly. "Things got a little out of hand," he admitted sheepishly. "We were supposed to stage an argument in the office for the benefit of a possible F.B.I. leak. We wanted to make sure that the bad guys believed Charlie and I were estranged." He sighed. "Things got out of hand," he repeated.

Alan pushed himself up slowly, using the table for leverage. "My God," he breathed, looking at Don as if he did not even recognize him. "You knew there was a leak in the office, and you sent your brother into this…this…Dear Lord, I don't even know what you sent him into."

Don tried to take a step closer to Alan, but Amita blocked his path. "Dad, I didn't send him. I told you, I asked Charlie not to…" His voice trailed off, and he found that he could not perpetuate the myth any longer. He hung his head. "I _did_ ask him not to get involved," he continued, "but he did it for me. The NSA agent working the case lied to him, and implied that my job was in danger. He told Charlie that he could save my career by going under."

Alan just stood silently but Amita practically flew at him. "Why didn't you tell him it wasn't true?" she demanded, pounding at his chest with her tiny fists. They were ineffectual, so she soon gave up, slapping him soundly across the face before Robin had time to step between them. "You've _always_ used him, always! Charlie would do anything for you!" She choked back a sob. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Now Don was stunned speechless, and after Alan's murmured, "Amita…," Robin stepped up to the plate.

"Stop it!" she demanded firmly, planting herself in the middle of the kitchen and glaring at Amita. "_You_ are not in a position to speak about hurting Charlie, Dr. Ramanujan – is Dane waiting in the living room for you?" She ignored Amita's offended gasp and turned a disapproving gaze to Alan. "And you. You should know your own son better than this. Don had no idea what the NSA agent had done until _after_ Charlie went missing, and his own partner turned on him." Finally she turned to look almost reluctantly at Don. "And sweetheart," she said, tempering her words with love, "you have to get your head out of your misappropriated guilt and utilize it for something more useful." She took a step closer to him and locked her eyes with his, continuing to speak to Don as if they were the only two people in the room. "I know how much you love your brother. I know that about you. Now is the time to pull it together, Eppes, so that you can prove it to him, and everybody else." She reached out and lovingly cupped the cheek Amita had so recently slapped. "It's time to find Charlie."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Bert Resin was a little surprised to see Jack Timmons on his porch; it was after nine, and no-one from the Bureau had called to indicate the need to question him further. Plus, this guy hadn't been a principal on the case….but Resin remembered him. He seemed to be always in the background during the time Bert was being questioned at the Field Office, and he lent administrative assistance on more than one occasion. Now, the man was holding his I.D. up to the peephole in the front door, but he didn't really need to. Bert had seen this agent all over the office, and knew that he was legit.

There was no reason not to open the door, and let him in.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Apologies were said all around – but the damage had been done. When Don and Robin decided to order in some Chinese take-out, Amita had excused herself, claiming she had a lot to do, what with catching up on her own classes, and preparing to help cover Charlie's. Don found that he wasn't exactly reluctant to see her go. Sure, she had claimed to be sorry for her physical assault as well as her verbal one, but he found himself just a tad unwilling to believe the entire performance. The Amita he had grown to know over the last few years was not given to wild assumptions, frenetic outbursts rife with unfounded accusations. It had been clear that she and Charlie had been having some problems before Charlie disappeared, and now Don couldn't help wondering if she protested too much.

His father's apology seemed more genuine. The man was haggard with grief and despair, and he had not been sleeping well. His behavior was both understandable and forgivable. In fact, Don found himself quite unable to leave the old man alone that night.

He offered to drive Robin home or call her a cab, but in the end she surprised him by asking if she could stay. "You're not the only one who sometimes stays overnight at the office," she teased, smiling gently. "I keep an emergency overnight bag there. Just drop me off early, before anyone else gets in – I can change, put on some make-up; no-one will suspect."

Don was seriously moved. He understood that Robin wanted to stay not only to be with and support him, but because she was genuinely concerned about Alan, as well. "Thank-you," he murmured into her hair after the two of them had retired to the guest room – Alan had decided that trying to squeeze them into the twin bed of Don's youth was both ridiculous and unnecessary. "You don't know how much this means to me."

Robin smiled into the dark. "Of course I do," she murmured. "You may have dated a few idiots in the past, but I'm the real thing, Eppes."

For the first time since Charlie disappeared, Don laughed.

**………………………………………………………………………**

Timmons had brought his bottle of Jack along for the ride, and now that it was over, and he had walked the block back to his vehicle, he drained the bottle in one long swallow. He shuddered as he tossed the empty onto the passenger-side floorboard and fumbled with the keys at the ignition.

God, that was horrible.

It wasn't as if he had not killed, before. He'd been an agent with the F.B.I. for nearly 15 years, and before that he was with Baltimore P.D. Hell, at this point, he wasn't sure he could remember everyone he'd shot. There had even been a case or two of mistaken identity, of non-targeted personnel jumping into the line of fire. He had been cleared by internal affairs in those cases, and while they still ate at him, kept him awake at night and contributed to the gambling and drinking problems that had led him to Mr. X in the first place…they did not feel like this.

This was the worst moment of his life. Without a doubt, he knew that he would never forget the look in Bert Resin's eyes when Timmons had reached around to his back and liberated his unregistered back-up piece. Resin was no fool. Still, he must have held out hope, until Timmons forced him onto his knees, hands locked behind his head.

The truck driver had started crying, then, and Timmons had almost burst into tears with him.

He had muffled the sound with a pillow from the couch after the silencer had slipped through sweaty fingers. He had been as merciful as possible: One to the base of the skull, and after Resin had toppled to the floor like a felled tree, two more in quick succession. Base of the spine, and a gut shot, to insure that he would bleed out if all else failed. Timmons was pretty sure they were all fatal hits, though.

He had almost slipped out the back door when he remembered to go back for the dropped silencer. His hands were shaking when he picked it up. He left the casings; the gun was not registered, and after he used one of Resin's own kitchen towels to wipe it for prints, he would dump the .38 special in one of the garbage cans that lined the alley on the way back to the car anyway.

He cranked the car's heater up as high as it would go, but he couldn't stop shaking. He had murdered his first man tonight, and he had killed an entire fifth of whiskey, too. He didn't even realize that he was crying; his only thought was to make it to a liquor store before closing.

Jack Timmons drove almost three miles away from Bert Resin's house before, drunk and despondent, he ran the red light.

**………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 30


	31. Bodies, Bodies, Everywhere Bodies

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 31: Bodies, Bodies, Everywhere Bodies**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

When Don entered the bullpen the next morning, he could tell that something was wrong.

The atmosphere was subdued, and there was an underlying tension. His heartbeat quickened, and he quickly became both terrified and convinced that someone had found Charlie; more specifically, Charlie's body.

David and Colby were already at Colby's desk when Don rounded the corner, and his fear increased when he saw them talking quietly. "What is it?" he asked, approaching before he even stopped at his own desk. "Why didn't someone call?"

Both agents looked up to meet his eyes, and Don's knees nearly buckled at the sorrow and sympathy he recognized in the expressions. "Oh, God," he mumbled.

David took a quick step toward him, grabbing his forearm, as Colby hurried from behind his desk. "Dude, it's not Charlie," Colby informed him perceptively. He stopped in front of Don and let his own hand hover, wondering if he should grab his Team Leader's other arm. "It's not Charlie," he repeated, his voice a little lower this time.

Don sagged in relief, glad of David's grip and reaching out to further steady himself by propping a hand against the wall. "What's wrong, then?" he finally managed to ask after swallowing thickly.

David cautiously released Don's arm, letting his hand fall to his side. "Agent Timmons," he shared quietly.

Don's brow furrowed. David's tone, the demeanor of the entire office, made it perfectly clear that Jack Timmons had been compromised. Timmons was a "floater"; assigned wherever he was needed to fill in the cracks during injuries and vacations -- he was a man without a team. Right now he was assigned to general administrative support – he had helped out a lot during the interview of Resin, Don remembered – and as clearly as he could recollect, was not serving on any field team at the moment. "How did he end up in the field?" he asked.

Colby shook his head sorrowfully. "It wasn't duty-related," he informed Don. "Traffic accident late last night. Looks like he ran a red light – an SUV plowed into the driver's side, and a city bus into the passenger."

Don winced, and David took over the story. "Blood tests aren't in yet, but LAPD found an empty bottle in the vehicle. Looks like he was drinking and driving."

"Aw, geez." Don shook his head. "I thought he was doing pretty well, these last couple of years. He told me he was going to AA…"

Colby shrugged. "Yeah, nobody saw this coming, man." He shivered, as if to shake off the specter of Timmons' death. "What's up today?" he asked, changing the subject.

Don didn't have to be asked twice. "You two go out to Morrison's and bring Ramon back here." He held up his hand when David started to question him. "I know the bartender and the girl are backing up his alibi." His eyes narrowed. "_He_ doesn't know that, though. I just want to put the fear of God in him."

Colby snickered. "More like the fear of Eppes," he deadpanned.

Don smiled, but it was not an expression of humor. "Whatever works."

**………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie had refused to eat for two days.

On the afternoon of the second, J.T. spoke plainly to Markus. Morrison had just visited Charlie, and he made his displeasure known. "I have subsidized you generously over the years," he pouted. "This is the first real favor I have asked."

Markus disagreed – after all, Morrison was always on the guest list – and he frowned as he walked his guest back to the transport van. "What are you complaining about now?" he asked a little tightly.

J.T. pushed. It was dangerous, he knew – Markus could decide Charlie was more trouble than he was worth and dispose of him in an instant – but Morrison was nothing if not a narcissist. "You've allowed him to grow weak," he sulked. "What fun is it to control a shapeless lump of clay?" He made a noise of disgust. "I only needed one guard to hold him down, today."

So Markus had promised that as long as he kept Charlie, he would keep him healthy, and had some soup delivered to the professor that evening. In the morning, a guard assisted him to the main mess hall. At this point, he was needed to support Charlie rather than to subdue him.

He planted Eppes at a table that was nearly empty – it was late, and most of the performers had finished eating, already. Charlie nibbled on some toast and looked around for Star. He did not see the young girl, and decided that she had left already – but he spotted Hyacinth, and Mercury. They had finished their meals and were standing in a queue near the exit. He recognized the hostess from _Dreamscape_. This morning she was wearing a white lab coat, and was injecting each person with something before he or she was allowed to leave. Charlie shuddered when he saw that she shared a needle amongst several people, constantly inserting it into one of dozens of small vials to reload the syringe when it was empty. She only changed out the needle when it grew dull, apparently.

Charlie knew that he had been drugged at least twice. The first time was probably in his drink at Fantasy; the second was definitely with a needle. It made him sick to his stomach, wondering how many others the needle had been used on first, and he leaned over delicately and began to gag. He had only consumed a small amount of toast, so it was more dry heaves than anything. Still, his performance convinced the guard to escort him back to his room, and he didn't have to join the injection line. Charlie was so relieved he began to fake feeling more ill than he really did.

It must have been a convincing performance. More soup and half a sandwich was brought to his room for lunch, and Charlie began to hope that he would be left alone for the rest of the day. When two guards showed up about half-an-hour later, though, his illusions were quickly shattered. One guard did not speak at all – Charlie had seen him on two other occasions, and had yet to hear a syllable – but the other informed him that he must go to the exercise yard for a while. He was almost kind about it. "The fresh air will strengthen you," he pointed out. "Even if you cannot walk anymore once you get there, just sit in the afternoon sun for a few moments." On the way out to the yard, he continued to speak to Charlie, disturbingly friendly. "You'll be mostly alone. I believe there are one or two injured performers who will join you."

Charlie was indeed exhausted by the time they arrived at the small concrete yard, and he stood weaving at one end, his arms wrapped around his torso tightly, staring at his bare feet. When he heard someone call his name, he looked up, startled.

Star was coming onto the court, her arm in a sling, smiling at him. "Did they give you a name yet, Charlie?" she asked. Behind her an older child, a teenage boy, teetered uncertainly on a pair of crutches.

The guards largely ignored them, and when Star drew closer, Charlie tilted his head toward her sling. "What happened?" he rasped, realizing it was the first time all day he had spoken.

Star grimaced, glancing down at her wounded wing. "There was an accident at rehearsal yesterday. Sometimes the vitamin shots we get at breakfast make us act funny, if the dosage isn't just right…" She looked quickly over her shoulder and then back up at Charlie, letting her voice drop. "Poor Polaris was on the bottom; I think he might have a broken ankle." She wiggled her arm inside the sling and smiled again gamely. "I'll be fine in time for the next performance. Walk around the court with me, Charlie."

Tired as he was, he found that he could not resist the friendly little girl, and Charlie limped beside her, past first one guard, and then the other, before he spoke. "Do they give you…vitamin shots…every morning?"

Star nodded, but frowned. "I'm not old enough, yet. Vitamin shots start at 12." She stomped her little foot. "I wish I could have them sooner. I'll bet they would help me develop, and make me more popular in the _Dreamscape_ rooms." She sighed. "I'm not earning any points at all." Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she looked up at Charlie. "Even _you_ didn't want me. I remember you, you know." She blinked up at him and her lower lip began to quiver as her eyes filled with moisture. "Why didn't you want me? Did I do something wrong?"

Charlie's head began to spin and he stopped walking. "I've got to sit," he whispered, and he painfully lowered himself to the concrete. He grunted as the pain of sitting made itself known, and the girl tried to help steady him with one hand, her expression concerned. He and Star were about 15 feet from the nearest guard, and he spoke quietly. "It's not normal, Star. Grown men should not want to do those things to you. The ones who do are the bad ones – not you."

Her mouth gaped open a little and she shook her head, "You had a pass," she said, trying to reason why a customer was now living at the ranch – but not performing, and not staying in the dorm with the rest of them.

"It's all wrong, Star – everything they make you do, the shots. I was trying to help stop it, and I got caught. Now they won't let me leave, and they're hurting me."

Suddenly the guard began walking in their direction. "Hey!" he yelled. "This ain't _The Dating Game_! Keep taking your exercise, Star, or you'll never get back in the show!"

The little girl backed away from Charlie willingly, starting to think that he wasn't nice like she thought at first. He was mean, like Mercury sometimes was, teasing her because she was young, and stupid. "I don't like you!" she announced loudly before flouncing off in the opposite direction – and the guard couldn't stop laughing.

**………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don had Ramon delivered to the interrogation room -- and left there. The agent cooled his heels on the other side of the observation glass for almost 45 minutes, just staring at Morrison's employee through the window. Colby and David waited awkwardly with him for a while, exchanging silent glances. After the first 15 minutes they returned to their desks, and went over everything they had one more time. It was difficult to concentrate on the files, and the junior agents took turns wandering back to interrogation to see if Don was ready to take on Ramon. First Colby went; then, David. The third time, three-quarters of an hour after they had brought Ramon in, they went together. Don met them at the door of the observation room. "Granger, you stay in here and watch the interrogation. Sinclair, you're with me." Ordinarily Colby would have protested being left out of the action -- but today, he was just happy something was finally in the works. He stood at the window and crossed his arms over his chest, straddled his feet, and watched Don and David enter the room with Ramon.

The darker man looked up from his seat a little impatiently, and started talking while David and Don were still settling in chairs on the other side of the table. "I understood that this was a voluntary interview," he protested hotly. "I've been waiting here for almost an hour, and I have other commitments!" He stopped short of admitting that he wanted to follow J.T. again, should his employer feel the need to disguise himself as a gardener once more.

Don lifted an eyebrow and gestured to the door. "You're free to leave at any time, Mr. Mendez. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Some things came up."

Ramon scooted his chair back in preparation for standing, but Don's last sentence set off an internal alarm. He looked at the agents a tad suspiciously. "Have you found Dr. Eppes, then?"

David stayed silent, trying to watch both Don and Ramon. "I'm afraid not," Don answered easily. He glanced down at a file he had laid in the middle of the table. "Although we have developed some promising new leads. We have some viable suspects."

David didn't react -- he was following Don's lead here, even if he had no idea where Eppes was going -- but Ramon barely suppressed a flinch. His own eyes darted to the folder and he nervously licked his lips. "I'm sure you've already checked my alibi," he said a little defensively, looking at Don. His gaze skittered to the silent Sinclair and then back to Eppes. "The bartender and Miss Sanders must have backed me up, or I wouldn't be here voluntarily."

Don smiled slowly, like a Cheshire cat, and drummed his fingers on top of the file folder. "That's absolutely correct," he responded mildly.

An expression of distrustful confusion came over Ramon's face, and he sat back in his chair -- which he did not return to its original position at the table. "So...what...how can I be of further assistance?"

David finally entered the conversation, smiling first to set Mendez at ease. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small notebook, turning to a blank page, but holding it in such a way that Ramon could not see what he was looking at. "We just need to hear the whole story again, sir. It's been a few days -- maybe you'll remember things a little differently." He smiled again, ingratiatingly. "We often re-interview witnesses. If you would be so kind -- start from before the party, when you picked Charlie up in the limo."

Behind the glass, Colby watched the trio intently, his attention drawn mostly to Ramon. Today's story was remarkable in its consistency. Many of the same words were used -- as if the recitation had been rehearsed. Colby felt himself beginning to find Ramon as hinky as Don obviously did.

He was concentrating so hard on the tableau before him that he started violently when the observation room door swung open. Agent Lange, who was flying a desk while he waited to be cleared for field duty after an appendectomy, laughed at the embarrassed Granger. "Walker from LAPD is on 3271," he chuckled.

Colby eyed the telephone extension near the door and frowned. "Stop sneaking up on people like that," he grumbled, and Lange laughed again. Colby started moving toward the door. "I'll take it in here." Lange nodded and backed away quickly, before Granger got close enough to twist the phone cord around his neck.

Colby let the door swing shut behind him before he lifted the receiver from the hook. "Granger."

"Granger. Gary Walker here."

Colby turned and leaned against the wall so that he could talk and watch the interrogation at the same time. "Yeah, Gary. What's up?"

Walker sighed, and Colby felt his body straighten in response. "I think we got a problem. Watch Commander just called me, and I'm on my way out to a suspected homicide. Real estate broker called it in, and the responding officers made the connection and asked for me. Looks like a professional hit, from what I hear."

Colby closed his eyes. Dear God, had someone found Charlie? What was he going to tell Don? "Who is it?" he croaked.

"Your truck driver," Walker answered, and Colby's eyes flew back open even as he sagged against the wall in relief.

"Bert Resin?" he questioned.

"The one and only," confirmed Walker. "You want to come out to the scene with me?"

"I'll be waiting in front of the building," Granger promised.

**.....................................................................................**

Don held onto his control with gargantuan effort, reminding himself that it wouldn't do Charlie any good if he got himself fired. He even forced himself to grovel. "Please," he ground out. "I'm SAC of the Violent Crimes Division for a reason. Let me follow my gut on this one."

Assistant Director Wright regarded the standing agent from behind his desk. The expression on his face was not unsympathetic – but he stood by his decision. "Agent Eppes, your 'gut' is tied up in knots over this case – for good reason. Someone needs to step back, and think clearly. I'm afraid that's my job. As much as I'd like to have the manpower to grant your request, I just don't. We're spread too thin as it is. Reeves hasn't been replaced yet, Timmons…" He sighed. "I'm sorry, Don. I have to choose between a tail on Morrison and one on this Ramon character. At this point, there's a lot more reason to be suspicious of Morrison." He lifted an eyebrow. "Isn't there?"

Don scowled. "I'm not saying I don't want Morrison tailed," he groused. "I'm saying Ramon sets off my alarms. He's too perfect; the story is too good. There's something in his eyes, whenever somebody mentions Charlie's name; the guy hates my brother."

Wright lowered his gaze for a moment to the open file on his desk. He picked up a pencil with one hand and began to tap the eraser-end on the desk. He nodded his head once, as if making a decision; then closed the file and stood slowly. "Perhaps Lt. Walker can lay his hands on more officers," he suggested, glancing at Don. He wandered to the window a few feet from his desk and looked out on the street far below, turning his back to the agent. "At the very least," he murmured, "the two of you might be able to coordinate some off-duty volunteers, from both agencies. Not that I'm recommending such an action."

The cell at Don's waist vibrated and he almost absently plucked it off, quickly reading a text message. "Colby and Walker are in the bullpen waiting for me now," he shared. "I'll…not bring this matter up, with Lt. Walker."

Wright smiled, his back still turned. "Excellent idea, Eppes."

**…………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 31


	32. On the Move

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 32: On the Move**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**..........................................................................**

Charlie very nearly didn't make it back to his cell. The walk back from the exercise yard was exhausting, and brought home just how weakened he was. It wasn't just the walk, however, that tired him out.

Charlie spent most of his waking hours lying on the bed, curled on his side, as if by closing in on himself, he could close out what was happening to him. He would lie there for hours, only moving or eating when he was told, and then doing so numbly. _Don't think, don't look, don't interact. Don't do anything that pulls your mind from its trancelike state – that makes you remember where you are, and what he's done to you…_

The talk with Star at the exercise yard _had_ pulled him out, made him think again, and that in itself was exhausting. He knew he should just put it out of his mind, try to get back into his twilit world of oblivion, but he couldn't help it – she had invaded his mind, and he couldn't get her out. She was just a child; she should be playing hopscotch, not trolling for johns. All of them, all of the performers he had met – considering the sordid things they'd seen and been involved with- were naïve, even the older ones. They had no idea what real life was like, what they would be facing when they left.

As he moved toward the entrance to the building, supported by the arm of the friendlier guard, he caught sight of Mercury, leaving the building by another entrance, carrying a satchel and accompanied by two men. They were heading towards an SUV, and as Mercury caught sight of Charlie, he gave him a thumbs-up sign and a cocky grin.

Charlie remembered the conversation of two days ago at the lunch table, and as one of the guards held the door for him to enter, he said, "Mercury – he's graduating, isn't he? He's leaving today."

The guard holding the door snorted in derision. "That's what _he _thinks."

"Quiet," admonished the guard holding Charlie's arm, looking down the hallway to make sure no one else had overheard them.

The other guard scowled, but said nothing further, and they guided Charlie back to his room. The brief stint outside made Charlie realize suddenly how much he detested that prison-cell of a room, how hopeless his situation was. The sour guard sneered at him. "No one leaves this place – not the performers, and not you. When your fag producer friend's finished with you, you'll find out firsthand what we're going to do to Mercury. Oh, and by the way – your lover boy's coming back to visit this afternoon."

"Shut up," growled the other guard, as they moved out into the hallway and shut the door. Charlie could hear the first guard whining. "What? It's not like he'll ever get out to tell anyone…,"

Charlie heard the click of the lock as he sank onto his bed with legs that trembled with fatigue, and something more visceral. He rolled to his side and lay curled, suddenly taken with a fit of shaking, fighting back a wave of despair. He'd been lying there for five minutes, when he heard a distant rifle shot, then another, and he realized abruptly, with shock, what had happened to Mercury.

"Oh, God," he whispered, as the wave of despair that had been threatening his consciousness engulfed him, drowning him. He couldn't do this anymore – he couldn't handle this hell. He was on the verge of cracking, and to face Morrison again – the fear, the pain, the groping hands, the humiliation – could very well put him over the edge.

"Someone, please," he whispered, closing his eyes, and all of the agony inside spilled out into the words. "_Help me_."

**………………………………………………………………………….**

Colby and Lieutenant Walker had just returned from Resin's house and from viewing his body at the coroner's office, and were in the midst of relating what they had seen there to David, when Don appeared, making his way through the bullpen, on his way back from Wright's office.

"It definitely looked like an execution," Colby was saying. "Three shots, any one of them a kill shot. Whoever was doing the shooting was making damn sure he was dead."

Walker gave them a nod. "And we think we might know who the 'whoever' was." As the group looked at him quizzically, he said quietly, "I think we should speak privately."

Don stared at him for a moment; then indicated a conference room with a jerk of his head. "Okay, in there."

They filed in, and David closed the door as Walker faced the group. "We found a fired .38 in the alley outside Resin's home. It was unregistered. We handed it over to ballistics, and they confirmed that it was the gun that shot Resin. It looked like it had been wiped clean, but the shooter must have been in a hurry – there was a partial print on it. When we ran it against the database, we brought up Jack Timmons."

They stared at him, dumbfounded, and he added, "His MVA happened only a few blocks from there."

"Holy shit," breathed Colby.

"I think we just found our spy," said David, shaking his head in disbelief. "Timmons – my God, who would have thought it?"

"Fat lot of good it's going to do us, now that he's dead," said Walker, grimly. "We're going to send some men over with a warrant to look through his place – or maybe you want to do it."

Don shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I have enough on my plate, especially with being down an agent. I'll let you guys handle Timmons' apartment."

Walker nodded. "You got it." He looked at Don, meaningfully. "I'll let you report this one to Wright."

Don gave him a brief nod. "Will do." He waited until Walker exited the room, and looked at Colby and David, and spoke quietly. "I talked to Wright about adding surveillance – putting a tail on Ramon. He gave me the go ahead – well, not directly – I think he'd like to keep it under the table. I thought the three of us could cover it – it means working double shifts – one in the office and one eight-hour stint on surveillance. Considering the fact that we aren't officially sanctioned to do this, there probably won't be overtime. It's up to you."

The agents nodded, and David spoke softly. "We're in. I couldn't give a damn about O.T. – this is Charlie."

Don was silent for a moment – they all knew that the recent developments didn't bode well for Charlie. Mr. X had apparently seen to it that Resin had been taken out, and could very well have engineered Timmons' death somehow. The odds that Charlie was still alive were beginning to appear astronomical. He swallowed, and went on. "We'll start tonight. David, you take this evening – four until midnight. I'll run home and catch a couple hours sleep and pick up midnight to eight a.m. That will put the two of us in the office during regular working hours. Colby, you take eight a.m. to four, and come into the office in the evening." He fell silent again.

Colby and David glanced at each other, and looked back at Don. He was slouching with a hip against the table, his shoulders sagging, discouragement in his face. David reached out and gripped his shoulder. "We're gonna find him. You know that."

Don raised tortured eyes to them, and managed a husky, "Yeah." It was acknowledgment in word only – his voice rang with defeat. They left him there that way, slumped against the table.

**…………………………………………………………………………..**

Ramon hit play again.

He had returned to the estate after his FBI interview only to find Morrison gone, and Ramon was certain he knew where his employer, his former – and if he had his way – future lover, was. He'd spent a tortured afternoon in his quarters, stewing over it, and finally had emerged, made his way upstairs, and slunk into Morrison's study. He knew that J.T. had the video that Ramon had recorded at _Fantasy_ – Ramon had walked in on him the day before while he was playing it. Like a moth to the flame, Ramon was drawn to it, and much like his employer, kept hitting play again and again, drinking in the scene like poison. That look on J.T.'s face was something he never saw anymore, but he knew that he'd been able to make J.T. look that way once. He played it until the afternoon sunlight faded, and day turned into night.

As he watched, black jealousy and rage filled his heart. If he knew where the professor was being kept, there was no doubt in his mind – he would kill him. That, however, seemed impossible – even if he managed to trail J.T. to where the professor was being held, it had to have insurmountable security. The place was probably as impenetrable as Fort Knox. His eyes roved over J.T.'s face as the video played on. God, he loved him so much it hurt – loved him and hated him at the same time. How could J.T. do this to him?

"Enjoying yourself?"

Ramon jumped at the words and whirled, to find the object of his desire standing in the doorway, with a cold, amused smile. Ramon stared, speechless for a moment, trying to come up with an excuse. "I missed you."

J.T. snorted with derision, and sauntered slowly into the room, his eyes locked on Ramon's. "You missed me," he repeated, sarcastically. "You're getting soft, Ramon. You like it too much, the attention, the pain. You are no longer a challenge. You bore me. Is it any wonder I find the professor more interesting?" His smile broadened, turned calculating. "And he was so good, today. I dispensed with the guards; it was just him and me. He fought me; Ramon, with the last bits of his strength, and I beat him for it, before I proved my dominance. It was better than anything that I ever had with you." The smile faded, and anger took its place. "Now get out."

Ramon moved toward the door, throat swelling with tears. "You'll be sorry," he hissed, as he passed J.T.

J.T. took a step towards him, stopping him in his tracks. "Are you threatening me?" His voice was soft, deadly, like the hiss of a cobra.

Ramon swallowed. "No," he protested, and the anger on his face turned pleading. "Someday, you will wish for me again, and I will not be there."

J.T.'s lip curled, and he jerked his head dismissively. "Perhaps. And perhaps not. Leave me."

Ramon put his head down and went silently, making his way down the hall, trembling with pain and rage. He couldn't bear this anymore; couldn't bear the thought of J.T. with another. Somehow, he would stop it, he vowed, no matter whom it hurt. If he couldn't have J.T., no one could.

**………………………………………………………………**

Colby showed up a half hour early the next morning and pulled in behind Don's SUV, parked on a small cul-de-sac off Mulholland. He got out and stretched, then grabbed two cups of coffee in cardboard containers, and strolled toward Don, who had slid slowly, stiffly, out of his SUV. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and looked like hell, and Colby wondered if he'd gotten any sleep the night before. He stuck out a cup, and Don accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks."

"Anything?"

Don sipped and shook his head, ruefully. "The place was quiet. David said there were a few cars in and out during the early evening, but it looked like hired help coming and going. He didn't see either Morrison or Ramon."

Colby grunted, and eyed Don with sympathy. "Get any sleep before you went on?"

Don lifted a shoulder. "Got a couple of winks at Char – my dad's -," he broke off, and ran a hand over his face. "Shit."

"Maybe you ought to take another couple. David can hold the office down for a while."

Don shook his head. "Nah. I'll catch up tonight – maybe I'll leave a little early this afternoon if it's quiet."

**……………………………………………………………………….**

Amita sat at her desk and stared into her cup of tea. She could feel fingers of tension clawing at her insides; the same nearly unbearable tension she'd felt since she found out that Charlie was missing. She was afraid, and upset, to be sure, but most of all, she was angry. She was angrier than she'd ever been in her life.

She knew it was inappropriate, but she couldn't help it. She and Don had both warned Charlie about hanging out with Morrison's fast crowd; he'd ignored them, and now here she was – mourning a life together that was just starting to blossom, mourning the intellectual presence she knew he could have become. She'd been secretly thrilled that he wasn't consulting for law enforcement anymore; she'd been convinced it was keeping him from greatness. Now, she'd found that not only had he not listened when he was told that hanging with Morrison was not a good idea, he'd apparently gone back to consulting, without consulting _her_. Now the life she'd envisioned for them was gone, and it was his stubborn, pig-headed fault.

A big tear plopped into the tea, and she blinked and sniffed, impatiently dashing the moisture away from her eyes. A voice at the door startled her. "Hey, are you okay?"

She looked up to see Dane Rastenbaum, and his comforting presence tipped her over the edge. She could feel tears welling up in earnest, and she looked down. "Yes – no – oh damn, I don't know." She buried her face in her hands, trying to stifle the sobs, and a second later felt a strong arm around her shoulders.

Dane was leaning down next to her, and he whispered in her ear, "Come on, now, it's going to be okay, you'll see."

**…………………………………………**

Larry Fleinhardt hurried down the hallway of CalSci; it seemed so familiar, yet oddly different, as if his time away had given him an objective view that he hadn't had before. That crack in the paint, the uneven sheen of the floor where the finish had been worn away by students' feet – odd little bits that he'd never noticed while he was there, suddenly jumped out at him. If he'd had time to reflect, he might have tried to relate the phenomenon to some obscure theory of the relativity of objects in the universe, but he was in a hurry. He was fresh from the airport, and he had a colleague who was in need of support. He had no doubt that the news of Charlie's disappearance had been unbearable for Amita. Hell, it was unbearable for _him_ - the news that Charlie was missing had prompted him to take an immediate leave, at least a week, perhaps more if he was needed.

As he stopped in the doorway of her office and took in the scene, he was stunned. Amita _was_ upset – she was crying; he could see the tears running down her cheeks. As far as being in need of support, however, it appeared she already had plenty. He stood there, staring with his mouth open, and watched while Dane Rastenbaum kissed her, slowly, tenderly. Their eyes were closed; they were unaware of his presence. After a split second that seemed to take an eon, he realized that not only was she not protesting, she was returning the kiss, and he sucked in a quick breath and backed away. Whirling, he bumbled down the hall, bumping blindly into a group of students on the way, as a hand crept toward the top of his head. "Oh, dear," he muttered to himself. "Oh, my."

**………………………………………………………………………**

Colby's eyes narrowed as Morrison's limousine passed the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and he sat up a little in the driver's seat. He could just barely make out the outline of Morrison himself through the darkened rear window of the limo, wearing a Panama hat and dark sunglasses. If Walker's boys were on their toes, they should be along next. Sure enough, a short moment later, the unmarked dark sedan went smoothly past. The LAPD boys taking this shift of surveillance had picked him up, and Colby settled back in his seat, with a glance at his watch. A little after one. Damn. He'd just eaten his packed lunch at noon, and it seemed like hours ago. He reached down and opened his small plastic cooler, and pulled out a diet cola. A little jolt of caffeine was in order.

He took a swig, then immediately lowered the plastic bottle as another car went past, older, battered. The gardener's car, if he remembered correctly from the list they'd been given. He got a quick look at the driver before the vehicle vanished behind a manicured hedge. Damned if the guy didn't look a lot like J.T. Morrison, from this distance. He frowned, fumbling for the folder on the passenger seat and flipped it open, finding a photo of the car first, and then its owner – the gardener all right – a man named Sami Adjani. Yep, the guy did look kind of like J.T. – not the eyes so much, but he had the same dark hair, a similar jaw. "Huh," said Colby, and lifted his head and stared vacantly at the road in front of him. What if…

The thought forming in his brain vanished in the next instant, as another car, a silver Toyota, flashed into view, with a familiar figure at the wheel. Colby plopped his drink into the cup holder, started his vehicle, and threw it into gear. Ramon Mendez was on the move.

**………………………………………………..**

End, Chapter 32


	33. Zeroing In

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 33: Zeroing In**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**........................................................................**

Don sat at his desk, trying to focus, but fatigue was making his head swim. He found his eyes wandering to Jack Timmons' desk, and the furrow between his brows deepened. Jack had been one of their better agents, well liked; trusted. To find he'd been a spy – that he'd been working for Mr. X, was like a blow to the gut.

The search of Timmons' apartment had turned up no evidence to support a relationship to Mr. X, and the same appeared to be true of his phone records. He had received some calls from pay phones, recently, which could very well have been from Mr. X, but there was no way to prove it. LAPD was going through his bank records, but Don suspected that any suspicious transactions would also lead nowhere. Mr. X, whoever he was, was meticulously careful. If Timmons had been able to ditch the gun before he was hit, they would be none the wiser.

Not that the knowledge was doing them any good, Don thought bitterly. It was now Thursday; Charlie had been missing for nearly a week. Too long.

His phone rang, startling him out of his reverie, and he could see David's head come up as he picked it up. "Eppes."

"Don, it's Colby. I'm on Ramon Mendez – he's moving. The funny thing is; I think he's tailing someone himself."

David had risen from his desk, and Don waved him over and put the phone on speaker, turning the volume low so that only they could hear it. He had to admit, he was a little less than trusting these days. Colby's voice floated from the phone. "Here's the thing, first, the limo came out, with what looked like Morrison in the rear. LAPD followed it, just as they should have. Then, a few minutes later, the gardener drove out – at least, I think it was him – he was wearing a ball cap, and driving the old gray sedan that we have listed in the files."

Don had the same file in front of him, and he fished for it; then flipped it open. "Okay, yeah, David's here with me, and we're looking at the photo. Sami Adjani, the gardener – he drives a 1998 gray Ford Taurus."

"I could be completely off the mark," said Colby, "but look at Sami's picture, then look at Morrison's. Do you see a resemblance?" There was a muffled exclamation, then the faint screech of tires. Colby came back on the line. "Sorry – I had to do some maneuvering. He just jumped on the highway, almost lost me for a minute."

"Yeah, I see a resemblance," said David. "What are you saying – that they're masquerading as each other? And if that _is_ Morrison, why would Ramon be following him? I thought Ramon was Morrison's right hand man."

"I don't know," admitted Colby. "It seemed pretty crazy – but why would Ramon follow the gardener, for that matter?"

"One's thing's certain, there's something going on," said Don firmly. "Where are you?"

"Headed west on I-10, just passing El Monte."

"Okay, listen, David and I are gonna join you. I'll hook up with you once we're in my SUV. I think I might try to call in a chopper, too – I don't want to lose them." Don and David were on their feet as he spoke, and David dashed over to his desk to grab his own cell phone.

"Okay," came Colby's voice. "Talk to you in a minute."

**……………………………………………………………**

David gripped the armrest subconsciously as Don jerked sharply on the steering wheel, one-handed, and roared onto I-10, his lights flashing. His other hand was adjusting the earpiece for his cell phone, and David breathed a sigh of relief as Don put his second hand back on the wheel. He was no stranger to high-speed chases, but he had to admit, Don was cutting in and out of traffic like a man possessed, and more than once, David had to bite back a gasp. Don jerked the wheel again, and they were changing lanes and squeezing between two trucks, breathing down the back of one semi, and narrowly missing clipping the front end of another, as Don said, "Yeah. You got it? Three vehicles, moving west on I-10. Get a bird out, but keep him high – we can't afford for them to hear it."

"Jesus," muttered David under his breath, as they squirted through the trucks, and he pulled on his seatbelt to make sure it was latched. He shot a glance over at Don. "Get a chopper?"

"Yeah. They've got a traffic cop out over 605. He's gonna swing over." He punched at his phone. "Colby? Where are you?" He paused a minute, listening. "Okay, listen, call dispatch and relay that. They're sending a chopper your way. Hook back up with me after you talk to them." He punched the phone, disconnecting the call. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on the road. "He's a few miles in front of us. He said they just turned south on 71."

**………………………………………………………**

Colby dropped back a bit as he turned east on 91, on the outskirts of Corona. He was so busy relaying the change in the direction to Don and then to dispatch, he nearly missed seeing the silver Toyota exit, and he jerked his wheel hard to the right, cutting off an old Hispanic man in a battered truck, who waved his fist at Colby through the windshield. "Okay, hold up, Don, we're getting off. Green River Road. We're backtracking away from the railroad tracks, heading west again. Whoa, hold up, I see brake lights. I need to pull off here."

The vehicles were on a dusty strip of road on the edge of nowhere. This section of road was dotted with small businesses, a tiny used car dealership, a café, a truck stop, a liquor store. Far ahead, Colby could see the gray Ford turning into the truck stop, and Ramon, in the silver Toyota, suddenly swerved into the used car dealership. Colby was coming too fast and had no choice but to continue past him, and he pulled in at the liquor store, bringing his car alongside the building instead of in front, to get it out of Ramon's view. Even from the side, he could see the gray Ford parked several hundred yards away, and watched, with eyes narrowed, as the man who was supposed to be Sami the gardener got out and stretched.

Don's voice was in his ear, sharp, impatient. "What's going on?"

"Sami – damn, Don, I think that _is_ J.T. It's hard to tell with the ball cap and the shades, and he's wearing a T-shirt, but he moves like Morrison."

"Back up – what are you talking about?"

"We all pulled off on Green River Road. There's a string of small businesses here – the Ford pulled into the lot of a truck stop, and Ramon pulled off right in front of me, at a used car dealership. I went past it, and I'm parked at a liquor store between the two. Sami – or Morrison, or whoever he is, just got out of the Ford, and there's dark blue van pulling up to him now – looks like a work or utility van – no windows in back. Okay – a man just got out – our guy's getting in the back, and the man closed the back doors for him and got back in."

"Colby, get off the call," Don said urgently. "Get on dispatch; tell the chopper to follow that van. Then head over to the used car lot – we're pulling on to Green River Road now – we'll meet you there. I want to have a chat with Ramon."

**…………………………………………………**

Ramon sat in the used car lot, his fingers drumming the steering wheel, as he watched the blue van pull out onto Green River Road. Green River Road was long, and only small subdivisions branched off from it a short way down. He could afford to wait just a moment more before he pulled out behind the van. This time, he had decided, he was going to follow it to wherever J.T. was going. He had no idea what, if anything, he would do when he got there, but he would at least get a look. He could see a man inside the small office, peering out the window at him, but he ignored him, and the man stayed inside.

Finally satisfied that enough time had passed, Ramon put the car into gear and swung around – only to stop sharply as an SUV zoomed through the entrance to the lot and lurched to a stop in front of him, cutting him off. He immediately recognized Eppes and the agent named Sinclair through the windshield, and his heart jerked in his chest. They'd followed him here – how much did they know? How much had they seen?

He climbed slowly from the Toyota as another vehicle swung in behind them, and he recognized another of the agents – the sandy-haired one. How many of them were there? Were they preparing for a raid? He licked his lips, and forced a smile, as they came toward him. "Gentlemen – is there a problem?"

The two junior agents stopped a few steps away, but Don Eppes kept coming. He grabbed Ramon by the shirtfront and pushed him against the side of the Toyota. "Maybe you can tell me," he growled. The man in the office had stepped out and called out a protest, but quickly shut his mouth as David flashed his badge at him, and went back inside, to peer out from the relative safety of his window.

"I don't know what you mean," stammered Ramon.

Don took a calculated guess as to the identity of the man in the Ford. "Why were you following Morrison?" He shook Ramon roughly. "Where is he going?" The hands crept higher, closer to Ramon's neck, and pushed against his windpipe, uncomfortably. "So help me, if we find Charlie and anything has happened to him, I will personally take care of you and your boss."

Ramon's eyes widened in alarm. "It would not be my fault."

Don's face paled at the statement, and he shook Ramon again, with a growl of fear-fueled frustration. "What wouldn't be your fault? You know where he is, don't you?"

"No! No, I swear – I do not!"

Don's eyes narrowed. "But you were trying to find out, weren't you?"

Ramon dropped his eyes and shook his head – at least, as much as he was able, with the two fists knotted against his neck.

Don pushed him harder against the side of the Toyota. "You're lying. And you know what, Mendez, we're gonna find out. We've got a chopper following the blue van that your boss just got into, and when the pilot sees where he's going, he's going to bring us in. So if you've got anything to say, you'd better say it now."

Ramon looked up with a horror-stricken expression, and for a moment, his mouth worked silently, then his shoulders sagged. "You have to know that J.T. is the only reason he is still alive," he implored. "Mr. X wanted to kill the professor that night at _Fantasy_, but J.T. pleaded for his life. Mr. X has been keeping him somewhere – I don't know where – and J.T. has been going to visit him. I followed today because I was curious. That is all I know – I swear."

Don's face had gone blank, stunned, and his hands had slowly released their grip. He stepped back, as if in a daze. "He's still alive."

Ramon nodded eagerly. "Yes. J.T. saw him just yesterday." An expression of fear crossed his face, as he repeated. "Don't forget, when you find him, that he is alive because of J.T."

His repetition of the comment brought a look of speculation to the agents' faces, but then it was gone, cast aside by the necessity of the moment. David stepped forward, and pushed Ramon around to face the vehicle, cuffing him quickly. "Stay with him," murmured Don, the urgency in his voice belying the quiet tone. "Call Corona P.D. When they get here and have him in custody, hook back up with us. I gotta get hold of that chopper pilot, and Colby and I are going to follow that van."

**………………………………………**

Markus met J.T. at the van again, and the two fell into step beside each other as they approached the building entrance. "You shouldn't have come today," said Markus. "He's in bad shape – you hurt him yesterday. You need to give him a day or two to recuperate. If you're that hard on him today, I doubt he'll live until tomorrow." He shrugged. "Not that I care – the sooner he's gone, the better. You, however, would have a problem with that."

J.T. pouted. "I _had_ to see him – I can't come tomorrow – it's Friday, and to keep up appearances I'm throwing a small subdued dinner party. Business, of course. And Saturday, you'll be dealing with _Fantasy_ – you told me you couldn't deal with a visit then. Besides, he fought me yesterday, he gave me no choice." He sent Markus a sidelong glance. He knew he was pushing, and he needed to stay in Markus' good graces if he wanted the situation to continue. He dangled a carrot. "I've got a new client for you. A Saudi playboy – he loves high stakes gambling."

Markus merely grunted, but J.T. could tell by the way his eyebrows rose that his curiosity had been piqued. The illegal gambling portion of _Fantasy_ was the most lucrative of all of the activities. "I'm interested. After your last recommendation, however, I plan to do a very thorough search – and you can do some of it with me. Let's go to my office."

J.T. smiled to hide his impatience; this was going to delay his visit with Charlie. "Of course," he murmured. "It's the least I can do."

**………………………………………………….**

Don stood, chafing, a quarter mile from the gated entrance. He and Colby were on an unmarked paved offshoot of Green River Road, several miles out of town, and in front of them, beyond the gate, lay a long stretch of gravel road that wound off into the distance. The gate was flanked by wired fence, and cameras were trained on the road in front of the gate – which was why he and Colby had stopped well away from the area, and backed Colby's vehicle up behind a small rocky outcropping. According to the chopper pilot, the blue van had entered at that gate, and proceeded down the road to a sprawling complex of some kind. The pilot had since departed to a nearby landing area; it would have been noticeable if he'd stayed, hovering over the complex.

Don had immediately phoned it in to Wright, and they were here now; and hour and a half later, waiting for reinforcements. It was going to take some time, Wright had told him – a complex of that size would require a sizeable force of highly trained agents. All Don and Colby could do at the moment was wait, and watch the entrance.

Don finally stirred, drifted wearily over to the SUV, and leaned against it, closing his eyes. He could feel the desert sun on his face; hear the sibilant sound of the wind playing across the rocky ground, the rustle of the scrub, as the breeze caressed dry branches across the expanse of fenced land. Charlie was in there somewhere, and he was alive – at least according to Ramon, he was yesterday, and there was no reason think he wasn't, still. Against all odds, his brother was alive. He prayed that he would remain that way during the raid – prayed that the attack would be quick and overwhelming, with no resistance. They couldn't come this far, get this close, and lose him.

The hum of the breeze was growing louder, less fitful, and suddenly Don realized that it wasn't the wind. He opened his eyes and looked up the road the way they had come, to see specks moving along the road, drawing closer. Backup. They were here – it was time.

**…………………………………………………………..**

J.T. let himself into the room, and surveyed the prone figure on the bed. His session with Markus had taken much longer than he wanted, and he was brimming with impatience. The professor had been prepared for his visit – stripped of his clothes, his hands once again in the leather restraints. He was motionless, lying curled on his side with his eyes closed. The harsh glare of the fluorescent light in the ceiling revealed the damage that had been done – J.T.'s eyes roved over protruding ribs, skin darkened by bruises, marked by cuts. It occurred to him that perhaps he had gone too far the day before – and that Markus was right; the young man couldn't take another beating.

"Hello, Charlie," said J.T. softly, as he stepped forward. The professor's eyes opened for a brief instant, revealing dull despair in their depths. The fight was gone from them, and J.T. frowned. He craved resistance - the thrill of conflict, and the eventual dominance. With no fight, there was no sense of conquest.

Charlie's eyes had closed again, and J.T. gave him a poke, trying to generate a reaction. "You will respond when I speak to you," he said. He could feel anger rising inside – he wanted, _needed _reaction. His voice rose. "Do you hear me?"

He grabbed Charlie by the hair, jerked his head back. "Get up!" he commanded. Charlie's eyes flickered open again and he grimaced weakly, but did nothing else, and J.T. responded with fury. He tightened his grip on Charlie's hair, and with a powerful motion, dragged him off the bed onto the floor. Charlie landed with a thump and groan, but still did not resist. J.T. was panting with panic-tinged anger now, and he aimed a savage kick at Charlie's ribs. "I said, get up!" he rasped through clenched teeth, his fists opening and closing. He could feel rage and desire seeping through him like black ink; blotting out everything else.

**………………………………………………………………………..**

End Chapter 33


	34. Found

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 34: Found **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………**

Larry accepted a glass of milk from Alan and fidgeted in his chair at the dining room table.

Alan lowered himself into his own chair, trying not to stare at the empty one so often occupied by Charlie. He forced himself to smile at his guest. "Larry, thank-you for coming. I'm not sure what you can do that's not already being done – but I appreciate having you here nonetheless." His eyes watered threateningly and he blinked. "It's a comfort, not to be…alone. Don and his team are understandably busy on the case – 24 hours a day, it seems. Robin stops by in the evenings, or gives me a call." His wobbly smile dropped into a frown. "Haven't seen much of Amita the last few days – she was pretty upset when she learned that Don broke Charlie's nose."

Larry sputtered in his milk and set the glass down hard on the table. "I beg your pardon?" he gasped, reaching for a napkin.

Alan sighed. "It's…complicated. Happened when both she and I were out of town, and it had something to do with…with what's happened to Charlie…"

Larry tried to make his smile genuine, his voice reassuring. "The undercover mission you mentioned on the phone," he guessed. Alan nodded silently and Larry continued. "Alan, if my presence here is a comfort to you, then I'm glad I came," he said sincerely. "Perhaps when Don returns your call and finds out that I'm here, there will be something I can do to help establish a search grid."

Alan started a little, and placed his palms on the table top, preparing to push himself to a standing position. "I should probably call Amita, too," he mused as he stood. He tilted his head a little and regarded Larry. "Unless you stopped at CalSci on the way here?"

Larry felt heat rise to his face and picked up his glass of milk again. "I…was not able to notify Amita of my arrival," he hedged before bringing the glass to his mouth and draining half the milk in one swallow.

Alan actually chuckled, and shook his head. "I heard that with the economy the way it is, airlines don't offer free snacks anymore. Looks like that flight really parched you!" He started for the swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen. "I'll bring the carton out; I left my cell on the counter and I need to get that."

Larry nodded silently, still buried in the glass, and found himself hoping that Amita would not answer Alan's call. At least not until he had figured out what the hell was going on.

**………………………………………………………………………**

No performer had tried to escape in the history of _Fantasy_. They were kept manageable -- docile, even -- through pharmaceutical intervention, as well as with some select 'fantasies' that Markus carefully weaved around them. 'Graduation', for instance, had proven to be a stroke of pure genius. Should a performer be erroneously under-medicated, he or she was still compliant, believing that the promise of a new life loomed in the future. Therefore, there had never been a reason to arm the guards. The men were all brutes; just regularly enough, they would dispense some physical punishment – the more public, the better. It didn't matter if the punishment was warranted or not -- the point was to periodically remind the performers who was in charge.

Weapons were checked out of a small armory -- like a book from a library -- when they were needed. Markus would arm a few guards during each performance, although there had not as yet been any call to use the guns. Various guards rotated into the 'Graduation Squad'; obviously a gun was needed when a performer had outlived his usefulness. In general, however, the ranch was ruled through intimidation and inebriation.

When the guard who was overseeing afternoon exercise on the court found his attention suddenly drawn to the cloud of dust rising along the gravel road that led to the ranch, he squinted and observed a long string of approaching vehicles. Alarmed, he swiveled his head toward the desert. More dust widened his eyes -- vehicles were traversing over the bumpy sand, where there was no road. Automatically he reached for the gun he was not carrying and began to back off the court, toward the armory. "Trenton!" he yelled at the other guard on the court -- a younger man who was too busy flirting with Star to lift his head and notice anything. "Get them inside! Something's up. _Move_!"

Trenton jerked his head up in surprise. "Scott?" he asked, but the first guard was already sprinting toward the small outbuilding that housed the weapons.

He was almost all the way there before he remembered that it was locked, and veered toward the main house. Arms waving, shouting, Scott was still virtually ignored in the sudden thunder of no less than four helicopters. Coming from the North, South, East and West, the ranch was covered from all angles. The performers on the exercise court lifted drugged eyes to the skies for a brief moment, then continued their established pace; their worlds consisted of doing what they were told and taking their vitamins – anything else was none of their business.

Trenton and other _Fantasy_ personnel, on the other hand, looked frantically from the noisy beasts in the sky to the ground transportation, which was now close enough for them to clearly distinguish the flashing lights. Now separated by nearly fifty feet, Trenton and Scott nonetheless had the same reaction, as choreographed as the flight pattern of the choppers. "Oh, shit," each man moaned, and with minds free of drugs they each made the rational decision. Neither, it seemed, was prepared to die in order to protect the mysterious Mr. and Mrs. X.

They hit the dirt on their knees, raising hands of supplication in the air, screaming "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" at the top of their lungs.

**………………………………………………………………………**

J.T. drew his foot back again, and froze, nearly losing his balance when the familiar _pht pht pht_ of helicopter blades wormed into his conscious. Once he had identified that sound, Morrison could hear several others; doors slamming, running feet, the occasional shout of someone down the hall. He stood uncertainly perched on one foot, suddenly wishing Charlie had been placed in a room with a window, when the door burst open and one of the guards he had tipped so well on previous occasions began yelling at him, without so much as a glance at the pathetic creature on the floor.

"It's a raid!" the behemoth announced, fear evident upon his face. "Come on, Mr. M – some of us are going to four-wheel the ATVs across the desert and get out!!"

Morrison balanced himself and turned toward the door. "What?" he asked; too surprised to follow his potential savior.

His newfound friend nodded impatiently. "There are only four of them in the rear garage; we have to hurry, before they're all gone!"

J.T. switched his allegiance without a backwards glance at the man whose life he had decimated. Eppes was worthless to him now anyway, broken; the fun was all-but-gone. Now his own life and career flashed before him in a kaleidoscope of terrifying images. He could lose everything. Everything, for a mere dalliance?

He scurried toward the door. "Get me out of here," he urged the guard waiting for him. "There's a big tip in it for you if you do."

**………………………………………………………………………**

It was late afternoon, but Alan was still surprised to see Robin and Amita standing on the front porch when he responded to the doorbell. He smiled and opened the door wide. "Ladies!" he admonished. "It's always lovely to see you…but shouldn't you both be working? Come in, come in!"

Amita stepped in first, avoiding Alan's eyes but stopping to embrace the man briefly. "I got a T.A. to cover my last class," she murmured as she stepped past Alan, allowing Robin to enter. The living room became visible then and her face broke into a genuine, if strained, smile. "Larry! I had no idea you were even coming! How long have you been here?"

Amita moved into the house to talk to Larry, and Robin took her turn with Alan. Her sympathetic eyes held his for a moment and then she hugged him long and hard – the way Margaret used to, when he was upset about something. The sudden memory filled his eyes with tears, and he turned his head away from her to hide his face.

Larry had greeted Amita rather perfunctorily, she thought, and took a wide berth around her to cross the living room, enter the vestibule and shut the door behind Robin. He smiled when she and Alan finally broke apart. "It's good to see you again, Counselor!"

Robin chuckled and paused to embrace him quickly as Alan herded them all toward the living room. "And you," she assured the Professor.

Alan led the way to the center of the room before he turned and tried to include both women in his gaze. "Is there something?"

Robin nodded briskly, all business now. "I think so. We have a police scanner in the office. LAPD is coordinating with the F.B.I. _and_ the DEA on a raid. Dozens of units are being dispatched – even helicopters."

Alan raised a hand to his mouth while he hugged his midriff with the other. "They found Charlie?" he asked through his fingers, his voice tinged with hope.

Robin shrugged. "I didn't hear his name. But I don't know what else it could be. I tried to call Don, and the call went to his voice mail, the way it always does when he's in the field. Same thing with Colby and David." She waited for Alan and Larry to absorb the information; then continued carefully. "I thought Amita and I should be here, when they bring him home." Unspoken was her basest fear. Robin knew there was little chance that someone missing through foul play for almost a week would be found alive; she wanted to be available to both Alan and Don when her lover came to deliver that news to his father – as he most certainly would. Don would never allow anyone else to say those words to Alan.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, everyone letting his or her own fears do battle with denial and hope, before Larry spoke. "Please, everyone, sit," he commanded gently, turning towards the kitchen. "I'll start a pot of coffee; perhaps put on some water for tea." He spoke wistfully. "Charles loves a good cup of tea."

Alan claimed his recliner as Robin sank onto one end of the couch, but Amita mumbled something about helping and hurried after Larry. She waited until they were alone in the kitchen before she confronted him in a worried whisper. "Larry? Is something wrong?"

He continued on to the range, lifted the tea kettle from its surface and turned to face her, keeping the pot between them. He allowed his disappointment and confusion to show on his face. "I'm not sure," he responded. "I suppose it depends in no small part on why you were kissing another man while your fiancé could be struggling for his life."

Amita paled and she staggered back as if hit. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Dane. You saw me with Dane." Larry just looked at her sadly and she blinked back her own tears. "I've…we've…never done that before, I swear."

Larry sighed, and moved to fill the kettle with water at the sink. "Well, you've done it now, haven't you?"

**………………………………………………………………………**

The LAPD jeep had been making good time across the desert – until it seemed to sink into a hole. Sand ascended into the engine and stopped the jeep on a dime, nearly throwing the five men out. The driver, Sgt. Wayne Harris, waved the other jeeps and vehicles past him, and assessed his passengers. "Everybody ok?" he queried. Harris swiveled his head on a sore neck to check out the officers. "We've got to dig this baby out."

The guys were fumbling with their seat belts and mumbling assurances, so the Sergeant turned back around to unfasten his own belt. As he did, he noticed the expression of shock on the face of the other officer in the front of the jeep, and he frowned. "Miller? You ok?"

Miller, still a rookie, raised a trembling hand and pointed to the east of the vehicle, near the edge of the sinkhole. "What the hell is that?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Harris's eyes followed the trajectory of Miller's pointing finger until he saw it as well – a human hand, reaching up through the sand as if it had been buried alive. "Oh, God," he moaned, reaching for his walkie-talkie. "This ain't no sinkhole in the middle of the fucking desert. It's a damn grave."

**………………………………………………………………………**

"Clear!"

Don swore under his breath as he heard Colby's shout. The ranch was massive, and even though at least fifty law enforcement personnel were on site now, they had their hands full containing the various _Fantasy_ employees and searching all of the outbuildings. The young 'performers' were heartbreaking, even to a hardened agent searching for his missing brother. They were obviously drugged; most of them had track marks, so it was no doubt a normal state of being for them. They were docile, uncomprehending, wounded.

David was with another search party, in one of the outbuildings that served as a dormitory for the performers. Walker and a team were going through the main house. Don, Colby and Leach had already worked their way through one building, finding only terrified employees in a sort of mess hall.

Don had been on the verge of implosion for days, and he felt no relief now at having taken down the _Fantasy_ operation. What would it matter, if Charlie was not found? He cautiously approached a corner, and led with his Sig. He sensed someone behind him as Colby appeared to provide back-up. He crouched as he rounded the corner. No-one. "Clear," he mumbled, disheartened.

"Wait."

Don looked up at Colby. From his standing position at the edge of the corner, the younger agent could see farther down the dark hallway, and he waited for him to say more. "Door," Granger whispered. He squinted a little. "I'm pretty sure. Looks like there's some kind of recess on the far side of the corridor, right at the end."

The hallway was short – only about 15 feet – but it was in the rear, windowless wing of a low building set behind the performer dormitories, which blocked most of the natural light from the large common rooms near the front. Leach appeared behind Granger and Don nodded, silently gesturing that they should move as a unit toward the door Colby thought he saw.

As they drew closer, it was apparent he was correct. It was the only room off this hallway, and the agents carefully positioned themselves to the sides of the doorway, so that if someone inside tried to take them out with a shotgun blast, they would be out of the line of fire. Don leaned against the wall, closest to the door, his hands raised in a 'V' before him as he held his Sig at the ready. "F.B.I.," he called, his voice a booming echo in the hall. "Come out with your hands held high."

Nothing happened, and the agents were silent, listening for any sound emanating from the room. Finally, Don dropped one hand to the doorknob. Unlocked, it twisted easily in his grasp. He lifted his eyes to nod at Colby, on the other side of the door; then pushed the door open and drew his hand back quickly. He and Colby swung from their opposite sides to cover the room, which appeared empty – save for a body on the floor. Naked, restrained, most likely a dead performer. The agents inched inside.

It was interesting that Leach, bringing up the rear, was the first to recognize Charlie – but the room had been cleared by the time he entered, and he was able to come through the door in a full, standing position. His eyes fell immediately to the body on the floor. In milliseconds, he registered the evidence of at least one beating, the leather restraints, the curly dark hair plastered with sweat to the professor's head – and the shallow movement of his ribcage. "Oh, God," Leach cried, catapulting forward. "It's Dr. Eppes. And he's alive!"

**………………………………………………………………………**

End Chapter 34


	35. Round Up at the OK Corral

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 35: Round-Up at the OK Corral **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………**

This time, Charlie was going to fight.

Somewhere in the cottony recesses of a mind dulled by horror and pain, he understood that it made J.T. happy when he fought – and angry when he did not protest the injustices being visited upon him. His synapses, though sluggish, eventually made the connection; either way, there was pain. In the time that elapsed since Morrison's last visit – time Charlie spent on the verge of stupor, freezing and friendless on the filthy floor -- something inside him, residing deep at his core, decided that he would go down fighting. J.T. would surely kill him one way or the other before all of this was over.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Don stood, a horrified statue, just inside the door. Wide and unbelieving eyes regarded the apparition on the floor. The room was rife with the stench of human waste, and under that, a layer of an even more sadistic odor. Sickeningly sweet, and heady – the air was heavy with the scent of sex. Don's stomach turned and he struggled to keep his lunch where it belonged.

Charlie.

God.

His little brother, struggling mightily now, a corpse brought back to life, was covered with bruises. Blood. To writhe like that and lash out against the hands that tried to help him must hurt a great deal. It hurt Don, so it was rational to believe that it hurt Charlie.

One of Charlie's elbows caught Leach just under the eye. The man grunted and fell back for a moment, but came right back for more. Agitated, Colby pulled at the filthy sheet on the bed, trying to secure covering for Charlie. His own revulsion and near-frantic state was revealed both in the tone of his voice and his choice of vocabulary when summoning his team leader. "Don! Get over here; try to calm him down! Get in his line of sight, dammit!"

As Granger tugged, a straw hat that had been resting on the bed became dislodged, and tumbled to the floor. Don had just begun inching forward, but now he froze again, remembering Colby's description of J.T.'s suspected ruse with the gardener. "Morrison," he whispered. He haltingly moved again, not even fully aware of it. He could barely breathe, as the horrid truth sank into his rattled consciousness. Morrison led Charlie to these people; Morrison had lied to them all -- without so much as a blink -- while he continued to visit Charlie here; _Morrison had been in this room_. At the very least, he had been complicit when Charlie was beaten, when Charlie was...hurt. Don's mouth twisted in hate and he was unaware of his feet moving…or of speaking aloud in the dank and miserable room. "Charlie," he choked, "Charlie, stop. It's Don. It's Donny."

As he drew closer, he could see more clearly the wounds on the part of his brother Colby had not managed to cover with the sheet. Someone either had broken his nose again, or otherwise blackened his right eye. The distinct shape of a boot was bruised into the flesh of the upper part of his chest. There were ligature marks around his neck. Morrison had done this, that sick son-of-a-bitch.

Charlie stilled, his body going lax as suddenly as he had begun to fight, and when Don's roving eyes made their way back to Charlie's face, his brother was staring right at him. Something twisted in Don's gut at the expression in those dark eyes. He recognized that look, had seen similar in the eyes of countless victims during his career in law enforcement. Fear, confusion, shame. His stomach churned again, and he flipped a switch inside himself. This was a victim. And the bad guy, Morrison, was still around here somewhere; Don could feel it with all the hatred in his soul.

Charlie's eyes began to glaze over as he fought unconsciousness. "Donny?" he rasped, his voice all-but-gone after days of begging, screaming, crying. Even the men closest to him could barely hear him, and his chapped lips hardly moved. "Donny?"

The ice that had begun to form in the pit of his stomach took over Don's solar plexus, and he spoke as if to Morrison. "Miserable, sick, disgusting pig," he ground out, slowly. He spun on his heel, staggering a bit as he aimed once more for the door, determined to find the bastard. "I'll kill you," he promised in a whisper. He pushed himself off the casing of the door frame, Colby's voice unheard in the background, deaf even to the plaintive cries of his brother, and weaved into a dead run once he hit the dark hallway. "I'll find your ass and kill you."

**……………………………………………………………………………**

"_Miserable, sick, disgusting pig,"_ Charlie heard, and even in his despair, he recognized Don's voice.

The worst had happened.

They had found him – but they knew what he had done.

And Don hated him.

Charlie watched his brother run from the room and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears of heartbreak and misery beyond anything J.T. had caused leaked from behind closed lids, and the breath hitched in his bruised throat. Cracked ribs heaved, but he could not feel them protest in pain. He felt only his brother's disgust, his brother's hatred. He had but one thought. Just before he passed out cold in Colby's arms, Charlie wished that J.T. had killed him.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Don jogged from cruiser to cruiser, leaning to peer into the rear seats. He checked the back of the transport van that had come into the raid in last place, and was now already half full of handcuffed men and women; employees of _Fantasy_. J.T. Morrison was not in any place Don looked, as yet un-apprehended, and he whirled in fury, practically knocking down a young LAPD officer who had jogged up behind him.

The woman held up her hands in mock surrender and took an off-balance step backwards. "Whoa. I'm one of the good guys." Don glared at her and started to walk past, but she stopped him. "Lt. Walker says a chopper reported some ATVs heading out to the desert; an LAPD jeep has been diverted to intercept, but the last ATV pulled a U-y; it's headed back to the ranch."

"Where?" Don demanded.

The officer was starting to look a little uneasy. "The Loo said to meet him." She turned to lead the way, and Don followed.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Elaina frantically fed sheaves of paper into the industrial-strength shredder. She could hear the police advancing through the main house, searching room by room, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they found her. For a few moments she wished she had allowed Markus to store a handgun in the office. Soon enough, her rattled brain pulled itself together long enough to realize that one small handgun against dozens of heavily armed police officers wouldn't have done much good anyway. It would only lead to one more charge against her – but if she could destroy enough documentation before they found her, she might have a chance.

The light under the desk began to glow, and Elaina froze. That was the signal – the alarm had been bypassed to the safe room, hidden behind a wall of bottles in the wine cellar. Her eyes narrowed, as she realized that Markus had gone there without her.

The plan they had devised for a situation such as this called for her to come here to the office, and begin shredding documents, while he tried to lead the guards in a defense of the compound. The hope had been that there would be enough time to organize, to arm the men – but in reality it had been too fast, too overwhelming. The two of them were to meet at the safe room, take cover inside and let the guards and the cops fight it out. They could live in the room for several days – weeks, even. There were MREs, water, duffle bags that contained some clothing, their passports; even false IDs that would help them get to her cousin in Russia. One bag was stuffed with several hundred thousand dollars in cash.

The light mounted under the desk was only triggered when someone punched the code into the security panel, and accessed the room. Markus had gone there without her, and he had not waited for her to let himself inside. The bastard.

SWAT officers in body armor were in the doorway, then, shouting at her to drop the papers, to lift her hands, to kneel on the floor. She did as she was told, licking her lips, and it took her all of five seconds to decide she was not going to face this alone. "He's in the safe room!" she offered the officer who was handcuffing her hands behind her. "Mr. X is in the safe room. I will take you there. You will tell the D.A. I cooperated, yes? That I gave him to you?"

The officer grimaced and jerked her painfully to her feet. "Sure thing, bitch."

**……………………………………………………………………………**

When the guard pulled one of his fellow employees from the last ATV and knocked him unconscious with one blow, thereby obtaining the unit for the two of them, J.T. was sure they would escape across the desert. Almost as soon as they exited the rear of the garage, however, it became apparent that there were still the helicopters to deal with.

Still, the guard was clever; he let the other three ATVs cluster together and take off in one direction, drawing the attention of the eyes in the sky, before he took off in another. It was the land bound jeeps that did them in.

Both J.T. and his driver could see the clouds of dust caused by the diversion. They hadn't counted on jeeps coming in from the rear, over the uneven ground – when the guard saw one break free from the pack and head in their direction; he knew that the chopper was relaying their location as well. Shouting at Morrison to "hang on," he whipped a U-turn, tires spinning in the desert sand before they finally dug in, and headed back for the relative security of the garage. He had no real plan for what they would do once they got there – after all, the ranch was a veritable circus of law enforcement by now. Yet for some reason, it became important to reach the enclosure. Maybe they could find something with which to defend themselves. There was gasoline stored there for the ATVs; perhaps they could torch the place, create their own diversion.

The guard knew the gig was up almost immediately. They hadn't made it very far into the desert, and just a few seconds after the turnaround, they were close enough to the garage to see that no less than five officers stood waiting for them. Two handguns and three shotguns were aimed directly at them. He tromped on the brakes and threw his hands into the air. Morrison, who had been hanging onto the guard's waist for dear life, found his grip broken by the unrelenting force of gravity. He tumbled backwards off the ATV, arms and legs akimbo. Morrison slammed so hard into the sandy dirt that the air was pulled from his lungs.

For a while, he flailed like a bug on its back, certain that someone had blasted him off the ATV and stolen not only his breath, but his very life. By the time he could take in large painful gasps of air again, he had flipped over and was scrambling in the dirt on his hands and knees, seeking purchase.

"Stay down," Gary Walker said, after advancing to within 15 feet of the man.

"Get up," contradicted Don Eppes, his voice raw and threatening. He was about five feet closer to Morrison, several feet to the right of Walker. "I want to watch your dead body hit the ground when I kill you."

Morrison continued to inhale painfully, eyes flitting from Walker to Eppes to the two officers now at the ATV, securing the guard. It had been a long time since J.T. had found himself in a situation in which he had to face the consequences of his decisions on his own. He had two men with guns pointed at him, giving him conflicting instructions.

Walker moved horizontally towards Eppes, and Morrison caught sight of yet another officer coming up from behind to take Walker's position. J.T. collapsed on the ground. He was so screwed.

The LAPD Lieutenant directed his next words to the F.B.I. agent, close enough now that he could speak to Eppes in a normal tone of voice. "Don, let us take him in."

Don's finger hovered over the trigger of his Sig. "He deserves to die," he announced matter-of-factly to Walker, who was now only a few feet behind him. "You don't know what he did. To Charlie." His voice cracked on his brother's name, and Walker winced in sympathy even though Eppes could not see him.

"Yes, I do," he countered. "Two of my men are licensed EMTs, and Charlie's getting all the help we can offer him. Ground ambulances are on the way, but Granger's called in a mediflight. We're taking care of Charlie, Don."

Don's gaze didn't waver from Morrison, and his finger rested on the trigger. "I said, _'Get up!'_ you miserable son of a bitch!" he said loudly. More quietly, he continued his conversation with Walker. "He deserves to be punished."

Gary didn't argue; in fact, he agreed. "Then let him suffer," he advised. "If you kill him now, he gets off easy. Watch his friends disappear, his career torpedo." Walker sneered at Morrison, who was beginning to think the lieutenant was more of a threat than Don. "Send him to prison and let them do to him what he did to Charlie. Make the bastard pay, Eppes. Make him pay."

Don's gun dipped, and his arms began to shake as if the weapon had become too heavy to hold. Morrison blurred as angry unshed tears filled his eyes and distorted his vision. "No punishment is enough," he informed Walker, and then he let his gun drop to his side. He stood breathing heavily, his head drooping, as if he had just run a marathon.

Walker stepped up to stand right next to him, their shoulders barely touching. His own shotgun remained trained on Morrison. "Somebody cuff that sack of shit," he ordered, "before I regret talking Eppes out of it."

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Alan disconnected his cell by flipping it shut and regarded his three guests at the dining room table over an untouched cup of coffee with suspiciously bright eyes. "UCLA Medical Center," he informed them. "Charlie's being taken there on a mediflight." He swallowed and met Robin's eyes. "That wasn't Donny. Donny didn't call. Do you think that means something?"

Robin knew that the helicopters used for a mediflight barely had room for the patient, a flight nurse and essential medical equipment; there was little chance Don had gone with Charlie. On the other hand, she still believed that he would never let someone else give his father bad news; at least, not if he could help it – and she refused to entertain the possibility that he had been wounded during the raid. She tried to smile reassuringly. "He's probably just preoccupied, trying to get there as fast as he can."

Larry, sitting nearest Alan – and as far away from Amita as he could get while remaining at the same table – lent support to her argument. "Absolutely," he agreed. "Perhaps David, or Colby…"

Alan interrupted, standing as he did so. "Right. David called from…the scene, and he said Colby was taking Don. I'm sure he'll meet us there."

The others stood as well, preparing to leave the Craftsman. "Just concentrate on the fact that Charlie's alive," advised Amita. "Should we all go in one car?"

Alan started to nod, but Larry overruled his host. "I'm sure we'll be more comfortable in two," he stated. Everyone looked at him and he blushed slightly. "We may need room for Don and Charles when we leave," he pointed out lamely. "Why don't you ladies go together, and I'll make sure Alan arrives safely." He looked at Robin; somewhat hopefully, she thought. "Are you all-right to drive?"

She narrowed her eyes slightly and tried to read the undercurrent of emotion that had seemed to be simmering just below the surface all afternoon. "I'm fine," she responded. She looked at Amita, who was looking miserably at the table as if Larry had slapped her, and her eyes narrowed further before she turned to move toward Alan, reaching out to support his elbow with a warm hand. "Let's go. Charlie is waiting for us."

**……………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 35


	36. I Know What You Are

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 36: I Know What You Are**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie awoke to bright lights and masked faces peering down at him. He was lying on his back on the emergency room examining table, but he was struggling to maintain consciousness, and the faces and voices alternately blurred and sharpened, coming into focus with sudden bursts of partial clarity. It was during one of those episodes that he felt the hands on his body, probing, touching… God, he couldn't take anymore. He thrashed weakly, attempting to get away, pushing feebly at hands that came down to restrain him. "Please, stop…"

He heard voices, snatches of conversation floating through the fog of his half-consciousness. "…can't get him to relax…Calm down, sir!... he could have some fractures, here…ow! – damn, gonna need to sedate him…"

He could see the flash of the needle in the bright lamps, and a fragment of his brain remembered, remembered he needed to avoid the syringes…"No," he moaned, as strong but gentle arms pinned him down, and he felt the prick of the needle. "Nooo…"

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Don strode across the parking lot of the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, flanked by Colby. The entire medical facility had been rebuilt, and had just re-opened in mid-2008, but its impressive modern brick and glass structure went entirely unnoticed by him, with the exception of the doorway. The doorway would get him inside, and get him to Charlie.

He was now through the doors, and as he made his way through the entranceway of the emergency room, the waiting area came into the view – and along with it his father, Larry, Amita, and Robin, who all turned their heads as he and Colby approached. His steps slowed and faltered. How in God's name was he going to tell them what they'd found – what had been done to Charlie? And what on earth _would_ he tell them - did he really even know the extent of it? He suddenly wished he were somewhere else – anywhere else but here.

"Donny – thank goodness!" exclaimed Alan, relief flooding his face. "I was worried when I didn't hear from you – I thought – oh, I don't know what I thought, I'm just glad you're here."

"Yeah, sorry I didn't call," murmured Don. "Things were a little crazy." His eyes traveled over the faces in front of him, searching for clues. "Did you hear anything?"

Alan shook his head, his eyes locked on Don's face. "No – he's here, that's all we know. They informed us when he arrived and said they were taking him to an exam room. They said they'd give us an update as soon as they could." His eyes were relentless, like search beams, and Don shifted his gaze to Robin, as Alan continued anxiously, "He was okay, then, when you found him? Was he hurt badly?"

Don looked back at him reluctantly. He could feel the weight of all their eyes now, and he murmured evasively, "I don't know, Dad, he was pretty beat up."

He could see their faces fall as he turned away, and his eyes met Colby's gaze. He looked as uncomfortable as Don was, and he shuffled his feet aimlessly for a moment; then headed off to some chairs against the wall.

Don felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Robin next to him. She slid her arm through his in a gesture of comfort. "You look upset," she said softly. "You can relax now – he's here. You found him alive – you should be grateful for that." She studied him for a moment, frowning, and lowered her voice. "How bad is he?"

Don shot a glance over his shoulder. His father, Larry, and Amita had all moved toward the group of seats they had been occupying, more than likely to give him and Robin some privacy and he had the opportunity to reply, to say what was on his mind. Somehow, though, he couldn't. '_You could be wrong,' _a part of his mind kept saying_, 'there might not have been a sexual assault – you don't know that for sure. You just assumed…you're wrong; you've got to be wrong. He was beaten up, that's all…'_

"I don't know," he murmured back. "When we found him, he was on the floor, nude, his wrists in restraints. He'd been beaten up -," his voice shook, and he stopped for a moment and ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. "I don't think they were feeding him – or not much anyway. He looked thin, bruised – he was pretty out of it. He said my name, though – he knew who I was."

She was staring at him, her eyes dark with concern. "You said he was in restraints, and nude? Don, he might have been -,"

"You don't know that," he interrupted, roughly, his eyes flashing, pulling his arm from hers.

She shot a quick look behind her, and spoke again, urgently, but kept her voice down. "Don, you know as well as I do the sick crowd we're dealing with, here. He needs to be examined -,"

Don had half turned from her, and he whipped his head back around. "He's _being _examined."

"You know what I mean," she shot back. Alan was looking their way, quizzically, and she stepped closer to Don, and rested a hand on his shoulder to calm him, to short-circuit the argument that had almost started. "Anyway, they'll check – it's standard procedure with an assault victim." She shook her head, gently, concerned and bemused by his reaction. "You need to take a deep breath," she said. "You did everything you could, and you brought him back. It's not like this was your fault."

He'd turned his head away, so she missed the wince that came with her last words.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

It was the longest hour that Alan could remember. He tried to sit quietly, but he fidgeted, and he found that his eyes kept straying to Don and his agents, or to Amita and Larry. There were odd undercurrents in the room that he couldn't put his finger on – as if all of them knew something he didn't. That was nonsense, he told himself, but he felt it, just the same. When the doctor finally appeared in the entrance, he was out of his chair before his feet had a chance to be planted on the floor, and when they were, they propelled him immediately to the man's side. Around him clustered the rest of the group.

The doctor's eyes roved over them as he spoke. "I'm Dr. Keller," he said. "I have a report on Charles Eppes. We've finished the exam, and moved him to a room. He is resting, and he's stable. I have more, but I can only give the details to family members. Are there any of them here?"

Don spoke, his voice brittle with tension. "I'm his brother."

"And I'm his father," said Alan. He sent a glance toward Amita. "Amita is his fiancée," he told the doctor. He opened his mouth to continue, to propose that she be included, but Larry interjected, suddenly, with a pleasant expression, but an odd glint in his eyes.

"Actually, I don't believe you've even set a date yet, have you dear?" he said, with a tight smile. "Not exactly family."

The rest of them gaped at him, but Amita flushed to the roots of her hair. "It's all right," she said, stammering, "I'll wait out here." She brushed at an imaginary lock of hair with a flustered hand, trying to hide suddenly bright eyes, and turned away.

Alan looked at Don as if for an explanation, but Don looked as dumbfounded as he was. Alan realized suddenly that Don hadn't even taken note that Larry had arrived in town; the events must have rattled him to such a degree that he wasn't thinking straight. The doctor had turned and was heading for the door that separated the waiting room from the exam rooms, and so Alan followed, with one last bewildered look at Larry, who was settling into a chair, with one hand nervously plastered to his chin.

Alan thought later that had he not been so distracted by Larry's odd behavior, he would have noticed some of the non-verbal clues as he took a seat in the small private office. Don's tension, the doctor's sympathetic expression, the fact that they were, undeniably, in a private office. Or perhaps he wouldn't have – it wasn't news a man expected to hear about his son.

Dr. Keller cleared his throat, and consulted his notes. "We were given to understand that Dr. Eppes was held captive for several days, nearly a week. He is dehydrated, and malnourished. He was also obviously beaten; in fact some of his cuts and bruises are indicative of torture." Alan made a faint sound of dismay; and the doctor's eyes darted to the safety of his notes, and again he cleared his throat.

"He has two broken ribs, and a broken finger. Although most of his injuries aren't severe, they are extensive – that many injuries will take some time to heal." He paused, looked down at his notes, then up, then down again; and then finally looked up at them with a regretful expression. "We also found evidence of needle marks, and repeated sexual assault."

Had he leapt on top of the desk and danced a jig, Alan couldn't have looked more astounded. "Wh –what?" he stammered, and looked at Don as if for assistance. There was none coming from that quarter; Don had one elbow propped on the chair, his hand over his eyes, leaning into it as if he needed the support. A sudden revelation hit Alan, and he stared at his older son. "Donny? You knew?"

Don dropped his hand and looked at Alan with misery in his eyes, misery tinged with anger, and remorse. "I wasn't certain – but when we found him – yeah, Dad, we suspected."

The doctor broke in, and they both looked at him. "Of course," he said, his voice dripping with nervous sympathy, "there are – ah – the requisite tests in such a case. For STDs, and so forth, although it will take a few days for those results to come back. We are running blood work now to check for evidence of drugs in his system. We had to do some sutures – the assault was apparently quite rough, and -,"

Alan suddenly shot blindly out of his chair, so fast that it turned over. "That's enough," he said, his voice shaking, and he turned and groped for the door, kicking the prone chair on the way. "I can't hear any more." He stumbled out, banging the door shut behind him, and the doctor looked at Don.

"Go ahead," said Don, his voice quiet, deadly.

Dr. Keller took one look at the cold menace that was forming in the other man's eyes. "Th-that's okay, I really was finished. He was disoriented and combative – we had to give him a sedative to calm him down. He's still out from that, but you can go up to his room whenever you wish. We'll be lining up rape counseling for him, as soon as he's coherent." He jotted down the room number, and slid it across the desk.

Don took it, and rose. "Thank you," he said, and the simple words sent a chill down the doctor's spine. He held his breath until the agent left the room, let it out in a shaky sigh, and shuddered.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Two hours later, Alan sat, gazing at the still unresponsive form in the hospital bed. He had a vague recollection of stumbling from the doctor's office and making his way out to the waiting room, which turned out to be a mistake, because there he faced the rest of them. They were looking at him for information, and he suddenly realized that he had to give voice to something that he didn't even want to acknowledge yet. In fact, he didn't end up saying anything – he just sank into a chair, and seconds later, Don's arrival diverted their attention. His older son had shed the stressed, semi-shocked expression he'd worn when he'd arrived, and assumed a look that Alan didn't like much better – the efficient, cool demeanor of a seasoned agent, but with a cold edge, a look in his eye that was frightening.

It was Don who told the rest of them the news, breaking it quietly, emotionlessly, simply, without any attempt to soften the blow. Colby and Robin took it with regret although without surprise, but Larry and Amita looked as shocked as Alan felt. Amita especially, looked stricken; she wobbled on legs that abruptly seemed to have lost their strength, and Colby had to help her into a chair. Alan had sat there, stupid with shock, until Don had pulled him aside to take him up to Charlie's room.

Alan's first look at Charlie, who lay there in sedation-induced unconsciousness, broke through the numbness – a wall of indefinable emotions hit him – sorrow, anger, pity among them. Charlie had definitely lost more weight than he could afford – Alan could see the deprivation in his face, in a thin wrist lying slackly on the bed, an IV trailing from his hand. He looked different, and it took Alan a few moments to get past the bruises, the swollen eye, and determine what it was. His nose had changed – it had always had a curve to it; and although the difference was slight, now it was straighter, more like his brother's. It made him look younger, and that made him seem even more vulnerable.

At one point, about an hour into Alan's vigil, Charlie had stirred, his eyes opening slightly, but even that slight opening gave Alan a peek into the pain and shock inside. He had spoken Charlie's name, and the eyes had turned toward him. He'd seen a flash of recognition, and a soft scratchy sound that he interpreted as '_Dad_,' the single word filled with all the agony a half-whisper could convey. For a moment, they stared at each other, and the horrific weight of what had happened hung in the air between them. Then Charlie had closed his eyes and drifted off again.

Now, another hour after that brief awakening, a footstep behind him made Alan turn, and he saw Don, hesitating, in the doorway. "Where were you?" Alan whispered, trying not to sound accusatory. "Amita was here for an hour and a half, but your brother didn't wake up; she finally let Robin take her home. Larry was here too, but I just sent him back to the house to get some clothes for Charlie. What took you two hours?"

"I ran over to LAPD HQ," said Don. His face was closed, hard, unreadable. "I was meeting with A.D. Wright, the DEA agents, and Lieutenant Walker. This thing is getting big, in a hurry."

Alan had risen, and was stepping toward him, with a quick backward glance at Charlie, and Don moved backward out into the hallway. "What thing?" asked Alan, as he stepped out to join him. The initial shock had worn off enough for his brain to begin functioning again, and he wanted answers. He still didn't know who had done this to Charlie.

"The takedown of _Fantasy. _It's nearly more than they can handle. There are several perps to be dealt with – the people who ran it. There are at least four dozen performers – victims themselves. We think that most of them were abducted when they were young – they've been held there, drugged and brainwashed into believing they were at some kind of school, or something. Then there are the patrons – the people who attended the parties. The government will want their testimony at minimum, and there will be investigations into each of them, to see if they participated in the prostitution or illegal gambling, or bought drugs there. Some of those names are big, Dad – all of them wealthy, some pillars of L.A. society, some Hollywood. The media's going to eat it up, and it's going to take weeks to sort all of it out."

Alan scowled at him. "I don't care about all of that – what about Charlie? Do they know who did this to him? What's happening to them?"

A nasty look flitted across Don's face. "We know who did this to him, all right. We're getting DNA testing to confirm it, and I've already applied for a search warrant for his property. It's J.T. Morrison."

Alan gaped at him. "What?!" The word came out louder than he intended, and he shot a quick glance through the door at Charlie, still motionless in the bed, then back at Don. "I don't believe it."

"Think about it, Dad," said Don, his voice flat, deadly. "Think about Morrison's interest in Charlie from the start. That sick bastard planned this – maybe not exactly the way it turned out, but he had something in mind. They've already started to interrogate the man who was holding Charlie – the man who ran _Fantasy_, and he's claiming no responsibility when it comes to Charlie's injuries. He said he held Charlie at Morrison's request – that Morrison visited him nearly every day since Charlie went missing – that it was Morrison who was responsible for the assaults."

Alan felt his stomach lurch. He'd spoken with Morrison, attended a ballgame as his guest, been utterly convinced by him – and all along, the man had had designs on Charlie… "God," he said, shakily, looking at Don. "This is a nightmare. We trusted him – Charlie trusted him…" He broke off, looking at the figure in the bed, who was beginning to stir.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

The memories came back first, before he even opened his eyes. The beatings, the torture, the mind-bending humiliation and degradation of the sexual assaults – Charlie knew them, they were there before he was fully conscious. Still in shock, half-awake, he willed the memories to go away with all his might, but they hung there, twisting in his mind like a corpse on a rope. They consumed him, and as consciousness returned they advanced, and he retreated.

He was dimly aware of voices, his father's and Don's, and he wasn't sure yet if they were real, or part of the lurid dreams that had floated through the last hour of sedation. He had a vague notion that his father was next to him, and he raised heavy lids to look for him, only to see him crossing the room toward him. Don was there, too, in the background, by the doorway, looking at him, and Charlie flushed with shame. He wanted so badly to be held, comforted, but he knew he was dirty – he couldn't bear for his father to touch him, and be defiled. His father didn't know, obviously, he was reaching for him, and Charlie shied away. "Don't touch me."

His father stopped in mid-reach, a bewildered look on his face. He didn't know, yet. Don did, though. Don knew what he was. '_Miserable, sick, disgusting pig..._' His brother's words, the look of revulsion on his face at the compound, floated through Charlie's memory. Even now, Don stood at the doorway, his face dark, refusing to come any closer. '_I know what you are_,' his expression said.

Charlie turned away from them, curled on his side, and stared in numb misery at the window.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 36


	37. Train Wreck

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 37: Train Wreck**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………**

J.T. Morrison lay curled on his side on the thin mattress in his holding cell, ignoring the only other occupant mumbling in the upper bunk, who apparently was too high to know he was there. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, followed by the catcalls from some of the inmates, and J.T. lifted his head; then rose quickly to a sitting position as he recognized his lawyer, Martin Van Clefe. The guard unlocked the door and jerked his head at J.T. "Come on," he said, "your lawyer's here. We're going down to the room at the end of the block."

J.T. was on his feet, relief flooding his face. "Martin, thank God. I've been here since yesterday afternoon – where were you? I need to get out of this hell hole."

The guard let them into a tiny room, sparsely furnished with a laminate table and four chairs, then stepped outside to wait. As soon as the door closed, Van Clefe hefted a bag onto the table, and spoke. "I brought you a suit. We have an audience with the judge in four hours. LAPD plans to formally charge you by then – they have to; they can't hold you without charging you for longer than 24 hours. The feds are pursuing charges of their own. They obtained a warrant for your property yesterday, and went through your estate last night. They are still processing evidence this morning; as soon as they are done, they will bring formal charges."

"For what?" J.T. proclaimed; his eyes wide and too innocent. "I was merely a victim of circumstance – I swear, it was the first time I'd been to the compound. I came at Markus' invitation – I had no idea what went on there!"

Van Clefe spoke coldly. "Save it, J.T. We both know better. I warned you about pushing a relationship with Dr. Eppes the first time he visited your estate. Markus Topov is talking, and they have DNA evidence, for God's sake. You're finished – and so am I. I will represent you today, and attempt to get bail for you – I believe I can get you put on house arrest until the trial. After that, I am resigning as your counsel – you'll have to find another lawyer. I'll be damned if I ruin my reputation over your stupidity."

J.T. gaped at him; the handsome features turned almost clownish by his overly theatrical expression of surprise. "But Martin, we've been together through so much! And I'm innocent – I'm not denying that I had physical relations with Charlie, but it was consensual."

Van Clefe snorted. "Good luck with that one, J.T. He'd been tortured; he was covered with cuts and bruises; he still was wearing restraints on his wrists when they found him. Of course, you know all that."

Morrison looked affronted. "Charlie and I had a wonderful time with each other. As I told the FBI, we dropped him off at home. If Markus' goons had picked him up after that and beat him, that's outside of my control."

"The feds have the _video, _you idiot," hissed Van Clefe, baring his teeth in a grimace. "I spoke privately to Ramon at the house today, and he told me about it. They don't know what they have yet, but he saw them take it. As soon as they get a chance to go through it, they'll have proof."

J.T. paled, struck suddenly silent, and Van Clefe rose, distaste on his face. "Don't forget the case that I settled for you, out of court, five years ago. That will come to light, too. I warned you then that you'd gone too far. I thought you'd gotten some control over yourself. Unfortunately, it appears I was wrong." He turned and strode out of the room, leaving J.T. staring at the table with a stunned expression.

**………………………………………………………………………**

Don ran a hand through his hair and glanced at his watch, then at the pile of documents on his desk. They'd spent a long night at Morrison's estate the night before, and had come out with loads of documents, some on paper, some on disk. They'd left crime scene experts combing the house, still looking for other types of evidence. Among other things, they'd turned up drugs – enough cocaine for recreational use, sedatives, Ecstasy, a bit of meth, and two different types of date rape drugs. A copy of Charlie's book, found on Morrison's nightstand, was collected; the back turned face up, displaying Charlie's publicity shot. They found some firearms, too, two handguns, both registered to Morrison. Ramon Mendez also owned a firearm. He too, was under arrest, with charges being prepared for obstruction of justice, at the very least.

They'd spent part of the night going through evidence, and started early again the next morning. Don had stopped in at the hospital briefly, but Alan, who had stayed the night, told him that Charlie had been quiet, uncommunicative, and that he'd slept most of the night, obviously still exhausted from his ordeal. He wasn't awake yet, but Alan and the doctors were hopeful that they would get some more response from him that morning.

So Don had gone into work again – no, make that, _fled_ into work. He told himself that he wouldn't rest until Morrison was charged and behind bars, but that was only part of the reason for his escape to the office. There was another part of him that couldn't deal with it all – that couldn't deal with what had happened to Charlie - that couldn't deal with the fact that Charlie wouldn't have been there, if it weren't for him. Charlie had gone in there thinking he was saving Don's job – he'd been ready to back out until he heard that. And God only knew, his brother probably wasn't thinking straight after the fight in the office. Maybe if Charlie hadn't been preoccupied, he would have been more observant – he would have read the warning signs, gotten out in time. Maybe …

A movement in the hallway caught his eye, and he looked up to see Colby emerge from the viewing room, where he'd been going through any non-paper media they'd found at the estate – tapes, disks, flash drives. He looked green, and he just stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths.

"Colby – you okay?" Don called. David looked up from his pile of paperwork.

Colby's eyes darted nervously toward Don, and then over to David. "David, could you come here for a minute?" he asked.

David cast a confused look toward Don, but said, "Yeah," and rose from his desk.

Don's eyes narrowed; and he rose also, and made his way over with David. Colby obviously had some kind of issue, and invited or not, he was going to find out what it was. "What's up?" he asked, his eyes on Colby, who moved his muscular frame to block the doorway to the viewing room.

"Uh, Don, I'm not so sure you should – uh -,"

Don scowled at him. "Not so sure I should what? What did you find?"

Colby looked desperately at David, who looked just as bewildered as Don did. David shook his head and shrugged. "What is it, man?"

"Uh," Colby's shoulders sagged a little. "I found a video." He looked utterly miserable. "It's Charlie. Remember that room we found at the _Fantasy_ site, where we found the blood sample that belonged to Charlie? It looks like the same room. It must be – there's a date code on the video as it starts – it was taken last Saturday night."

Don started toward the room, grimly. "So, let's see it."

Colby sidestepped quickly, blocking his way, his face assuming a pleading look. "Don, really, you shouldn't – in fact, no one else has to watch it. I can handle this."

Don stared at him. "So can I."

Colby shook his head. "It's Morrison, Don." Don's lips tightened, and he stepped quickly to Colby's other side, shouldering his way through the door. "Don -," Colby stopped, and looked at David helplessly.

Don approached the screen on the desk across the room and shot over his shoulder. "Get out of here. Go do something. Take a break - and shut the door."

He stood for a moment, waiting, not turning, and the door shut behind him. The screen was on, but blank - a flat expanse of silver blue. He pressed the eject button, experimentally, and the disk slid out. He pushed it back in, and hesitated. Maybe Colby was right. He probably shouldn't watch this. His finger hovered over the play button, and he pushed it and sat back in the chair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers tented in front of his face.

The very first image made his heart plummet. Charlie, nude, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, obviously drugged. He was coming to, and Morrison was speaking to him. Charlie looked bewildered, and as the first blow came from the leather strap, he gasped, and Don gasped with him. "Oh, God," Don whispered, closing his eyes, only to open them again at Charlie's exclamation of agony. "Aw, Charlie."

He sat there, through each blow, each cry of pain, each fruitless struggle to escape the devices, the weapons, Morrison's hands. He stared, transfixed with horror, as Morrison dragged a half-conscious Charlie toward the metal framed bed, with its sheet-covered mattress.

Finally, it was over, and still he sat there, motionless, staring at the blank screen with tears in his eyes, his brother's cries resonating in his brain.

**………………………………………………………………………**

It was afternoon before he got back to the hospital, and dragged himself up to Charlie's room, wondering how he was going to look his brother in the eye, after what he had seen. He told himself it was good to know what Charlie had gone through – and he had to know to work the case against Morrison effectively.

At the same time, he knew, without question, it was also bad – really bad - to know what Charlie had gone through. Don couldn't get the images out of his head, and to know that what he had seen was only the first of many visits by Morrison… he shuddered, and with a deep breath stepped into Charlie's room.

And stopped, staring stupidly. The room was bare, the bed stripped, remade. He whirled around in confusion, and caught a young woman in scrubs walking down the hall. "Hey – my brother was in this room – Charles Eppes – do you know where he went?"

She raised an eyebrow, and he was conscious of getting an appraising once-over, then she dimpled at him. "No – I just came on. I can check for you though, Mr. -?"

"Don Eppes," said Don, "I'm his brother." In ordinary times, her interest would have generated an automatic smile, and an appraisal in return, but the knot in his gut generated by Charlie's absence pre-empted that. He trailed after her to the nursing unit, and stood a polite distance away while she conferred with an older nurse.

After a few seconds, both of them walked over to him. '_Shit_,' he thought, '_this can't be good_.'

The older nurse spoke. "Your brother is still here – he's been moved to Resnick into another room."

Don's brow furrowed. "Resnick?"

"Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital," said the nurse, whose nametag said 'Joy.' Don couldn't think of a less appropriate name for the circumstances. Joy continued. "Dr. Smithfield moved him. It's easy to get to – it's part of UCLA Medical Center, and is attached to this building. Simply go down to the main lobby and follow the signs. When you get to the main desk in Resnick, ask the attendant to look up his room number."

"Do you know why he was moved?"

Joy shook her head, but Don thought he saw her exchange a quick glance with the younger nurse. "You'll have to ask him, sir."

"Thanks." Don gave them a quick nod, and strode down the hall, oblivious to the admiring gaze directed at his back. He followed Joy's directions, and in short order, found himself at the main desk in Resnick. He had to produce ID, but then he was given Charlie's room number, and moments later, as he made his way down the third floor hallway, was rewarded by the sight of his father.

Alan was standing in a doorway, looking into a room, and as Don registered in his peripheral vision, he turned, and his face flooded with relief. "Donny! I'm glad you're here. They just got him situated. I was going to call you, but I see you've found us." To an unfamiliar observer, his tone and face appeared normal, but Don could see the concealed stress in the lines in his face, in the tightness in his shoulders, as he moved to stand next to him.

"What's going on?" he said, with a quick glance inside. Charlie was lying on his side, turned away from them, much as he had been when Don had left yesterday. "Why'd they move him?"

Alan drew him away from the doorway out into the hall and lowered his voice. "He isn't responding," he said, and this time, Don could hear the definite worry in his tone. "He won't eat, he won't talk. He just lies there. They brought a shrink in – Dr. Smithfield. He said Charlie's suffering from extreme psychological trauma, and he ordered him to be brought here to Resnick. They're going to bring in an expert in counseling rape and assault victims."

"And that would be me." At the voice, both of them turned to see an attractive black woman in a neat pantsuit, wearing a white coat. She held out her hand. "I'm Dr. Sondra Shaw. Dr. Smithfield asked me to look in on Charlie's case. My degree is in psychology, but I specialize in victims of assault."

Alan took her hand. "I'm Alan Eppes, Charlie's father, and this is his brother, Don." Don shook her hand with a polite murmur, feeling as though he was being assessed for the second time in minutes.

Dr. Shaw had apparently finished with her initial inspection, because she inclined her head, slightly. "Why don't you come with me? I'd like to get some particulars before I try to talk with him."

She led them to an office at the end of the hallway, ushered them inside, where she sat, not at the desk, but at a table, and invited them to sit across from her. She opened a folder, and glanced at some notes. "Please know that anything that we discuss here is confidential. I see here that Charles is a recently recovered kidnap victim."

"He prefers to be called Charlie," interjected Alan.

Dr. Shaw nodded, and went on. "During his exam, the doctors uncovered evidence of multiple sexual assaults, beating, and signs of torture. Charlie himself has not spoken of the experience, so the exam evidence has not been corroborated."

"Yes, it has," said Don quietly, his jaw clenched. "There is video evidence of the first assault."

Alan jerked his head to look at him, astonished, and Sondra Shaw took in his expression out of the corner of her eye as she addressed Don. "And you know this how?"

"I'm FBI - SAC of the Los Angeles office, who, along with LAPD, is investigating this incident."

Dr. Shaw's gaze intensified. "Isn't that a little irregular – investigating your own brother's case?"

"It's being allowed," said Don stiffly. "It's being overseen by the Area Director."

"Mmm," she replied, and the sound was laced with speculation. "And were the exam results accurate?"

Don swallowed. "Yes." The word came out roughly. "It was pretty bad."

"You watched it?" exclaimed Alan, in a shocked voice.

Don looked at him and scowled. He was getting the impression from both of them that they thought he was overstepping his bounds, and it irritated him. "Yes, I watched it. I'm gonna make damn sure that sick excuse for a human being gets what's coming to him."

He looked back at Sondra, defensively, and was met with a cool, appraising gaze. "Meaning his attacker," she said.

"Of course," replied Don, shortly. He'd almost slipped and used Morrison's name, which was technically not allowed, since the man hadn't been even been charged yet.

"And did Charlie know his attacker?" Dr. Shaw was jotting more notes.

Alan jumped in. "Yes. The man befriended him weeks ago – he's a respected member of the community. None of us ever dreamed he was capable of this."

Sondra looked up at him. "Befriended him. So Charlie's gay?"

"NO!" The word erupted from both Alan and Don at the same time, and they looked at each other with identical shocked expressions. "He's engaged to be married," sputtered Alan. "To a woman. Amita."

Don's reply was a bit more composed. "His attacker is, apparently, but Charlie didn't know that. The man throws lavish parties and looks for interesting guests to invite." His mouth twisted, bitterly. "He apparently thought Charlie was _interesting."_

Dr. Shaw was frowning in confusion. "And this man is an upstanding member of the community – apparently wealthy, you say. Why would he risk his wealth and reputation with a kidnapping?"

"He was involved in some illegal activities. Charlie was working undercover when he was kidnapped, and the man took advantage of that," said Don. "I can't tell you any more; it's an ongoing investigation."

She stared at him for a moment; then nodded, briefly. "Of course. Charlie works in law enforcement, then."

Alan shook his head. "He's a math professor. He consults on cases for Don on occasion, although this one was for the DEA, if I'm not mistaken." He looked at Don for confirmation, who nodded.

Dr. Shaw stared at them, then down at her notes; then she sighed, and laid down her pen in surrender. "This is as clear as mud," she said wryly. "The bottom line is, Charlie was attacked and raped by someone he knew – someone he trusted, perhaps liked?"

Alan nodded. "That's correct."

"And what is Charlie like?" she asked. "Personality traits."

Don and Alan looked at each other; then Alan turned back to her. "Well, first of all, he's considered a genius," he said. "He graduated from high school at thirteen, and attended Princeton and Oxford. He's only thirty-three, and he's a tenured professor at Cal Sci; he's been published many times, including a current bestseller on relationships. He's led a somewhat sheltered, academic life, at least until the past few years."

"When he started working with me," muttered Don.

"I didn't say that," protested Alan.

"You didn't have to."

"Gentlemen!" interrupted Sondra, and they looked at her a bit sheepishly. "I have to admit, this is all very interesting, but I'm trying to find out more about Charlie, so I can figure out how this will affect him. So, he's somewhat introverted?"

Alan hesitated. "Not exactly. He isn't a 'people person,' by any means – he gets along well enough socially, but he's not exactly comfortable with people, with one exception – when he's talking about math. Then he's a different person – confident, sometimes a little too confident – he just brims with excitement when he's trying to get a concept across."

"Intense," said Dr. Shaw.

"Exactly. That's a good word for him. He's also a perfectionist – he hates to make mistakes, and he tends to see things in black and white – if it can't be explained mathematically, then he tends to distrust it."

"Mmm," said Shaw. She had begun taking notes again, and she paused, her brow furrowed; then sighed. "All right. I'm talking to you now for two reasons – one is to get background information on Charlie and on what happened to him, which we just accomplished. The second thing I'd like to do is educate those closest to him, so you can help him through this. If there are other family members, such as his mother, who should be present for this discussion, it can wait."

"You might as well go ahead," said Alan. "His mother passed away a few years ago, and Don is his only sibling."

"His fiancée?" Dr. Shaw reminded them, gently; then stopped herself. "Never mind – I can speak with her separately, if she likes. Rape often has an impact on how the victim views physical relationships." She looked at their somber faces. "Male rape is one of the most under-reported, misunderstood crimes in the United States – on top of the feelings of helplessness and humiliation that women victims feel, men often feel that it strikes at the roots of their manhood. It can be extremely difficult for a man to accept and to deal with it, no matter what the circumstances are. The responses can range from withdrawal to anger, and often the victim will cycle through several of them. Charlie is here at Resnick because it has already been perceived that he is having extreme difficulties with what happened to him. Emotionally, he's a train wreck. Based on what you have told me, his personality is such that it may make it more difficult for him to deal with this. Intense, intelligent, perfectionist – those characteristics will exaggerate the impact of this on him. Make no mistake – he's in for a very bumpy ride. The next few weeks will undoubtedly test your patience and the limits of your feelings for him – but it's imperative that he have your support. Can you pledge that?"

"Yes," Don answered quietly. Alan had answered her questions with a semblance of control, but his self-containment had begun to crumble as she spoke, and his 'yes,' followed only after he was able to choke back the emotion.

Sondra Shaw nodded at them, approvingly. "Good. Now let's go see Charlie."

**………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 37


	38. Choosing Sides

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 38: Choosing Sides**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Larry had made himself as useful to Alan as he could. He ran errands, returning to the Craftsman to feed the koi and pick up some comfortable sweats and toiletries for Charlie. Back at the hospital, he brought Alan strong coffee from the cafeteria. He sat beside his old friend at his son's bedside for hours, probably surprising them both with his new-found ability to hold his tongue and simply serve as a silent, solid support. Finally, at nearly one a.m., Larry had gently led Alan to the car and driven him home for a few hours of sleep. At first he contemplated trying to talk Alan into leaving – but in the end, he merely made the decision himself, telling Alan that it was time to go. It was a testament to the elder Eppes' state-of-mind that he allowed such a thing. Ordinarily, Alan was very much the strong patriarch of the family, not only able, but _insistent_ upon thinking for himself and drawing his own conclusions.

These were not, however, ordinary times.

Larry himself found sleep a veritable impossibility. Every time he started to drift off, he would hear again Don's dead-pan delivery of the most unexpected and God-awful news he had heard in his entire life – Charlie was alive, but he was violated; raped – and he would start fully awake in the sterile guest room. After the third time, he rose and climbed the stairs as silently as he could. He paused for a moment at Charlie's bedroom door, then moved on to the solarium. He smiled slightly to see that the telescope was still in place. He spent some time searching the night sky for the familiar anchors that had soothed his soul for so many years, until he finally realized that what he really desired was a certain earth-bound anchor; a more recent comfort.

So he crept back down the stairs to the guest room, searched out his cell phone, and called Megan.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Amita had driven out to UCLA early – well before visiting hours. Alan and Larry had not returned yet, and Amita was not on the short list of "family members," so she could not get much information from anyone regarding Charlie's condition. She sat for a few minutes in a small waiting area, oblivious to the multi-million dollar _feng shui_ and new-car smell of the state-of-the-art hospital. She closed her eyes, and thought of Charlie.

His infectious excitement when he proved a new theory. The way his fingers could move so rapidly over a white board – and so agonizingly slowly over her body. His smile…and the way his face lit up whenever she entered a room. His nervous anxiety, when he gave her the ring, and asked her to be his wife.

She blinked back tears and rose stiffly to drive to CalSci and face the day's classes. Millie would probably try her best to arrange something, but Amita wasn't going to ask. She didn't understand what was happening with Dane, what had happened to Charlie; the physics of real life had quite outwitted her. But she could still _teach_ – her footing in the academic world was sound.

Amita headed for campus as if for Shangri-La.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Robin sat; her back straight, in the chair behind the plaintiff's table and waited for the judge to arrive.

She studied the file before her and studiously ignored the defendant – one J.T. Morrison. The courtroom was packed with reporters who had already sniffed out the story. A few had even been at Mendez's arraignment before lunch. Whether they truly knew the extent of _Fantasy_ ties or were just covering their bases, Robin didn't know – and didn't particularly care. Tomorrow's arraignment – of Markus and Elaina Topov, would be a circus. Her office intended to seek a change-of-venue for that trial; perhaps for this one, as well.

On a personal note, she was glad that Don's boss had laid down the law and prohibited him from attending the arraignment. He had gone to the hospital, to be with his father and Charlie, which was where he belonged, anyway. She shivered when she remembered the look on his face after the raid, and rescue of Charlie. Even before sexual assault had been confirmed, he had been…inconsolable. His hatred of Morrison was palpable, on-the-surface; Don's presence in the courtroom today would have been a detriment, and with the testimony of Colby, David, Walker, Leach…she had more than enough.

She felt none of the usual satisfaction, though. Something dangerous was bubbling just below the surface with Don. It was almost as if he was blaming himself – but that was crazy. Charlie had gotten involved with this filthy piece of rich and famous shit all by himself. Maybe it was a 'Big Brother' thing; the oldest sibling was often taught that he must protect his younger siblings. In addition, Don's and Charlie's relationship had encountered some rocky ground since the Pakistani e-mail and Charlie's loss of clearance. Perhaps Don was regretting that.

And Amita.

Good Lord, Amita. Just a few months ago, she and Charlie had gotten engaged. Robin was not Don's wife – as of yet, they had not really discussed marriage – but still she felt as if Amita was almost her sister-in-law. Robin was an Assistant US Attorney, a woman of the world; she had heard it all, had seen most of it – and had even perpetrated some herself. Still, she was stunned speechless when the younger woman had admitted to her on the way home last night that Larry had caught her kissing someone else. Just yesterday – while Charlie was still missing – Amita was getting some in her office at CalSci.

What the hell?

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Millie stood just inside the door of the science lecture hall and second-guessed herself. Both Larry and Amita had willingly agreed to do this impromptu presentation of their Higgs boson research thus far. She almost felt a little heartless when she had called them, but it wasn't hard to shake that off. After all, Charlie had been found, and from what she heard his injuries were not too serious. True, Alan had seemed a bit subdued when he had phoned last night, but that was no doubt due to the stress of the last week. He had catalogued a few injuries for her, but Millie had seen Charlie bounce back from more. She had no doubt that he would be back to work in a week.

Still, witnessing the stilted, awkward performance of Drs. Ramanujan and Fleinhardt, she was taken aback. This was not the natural chemistry she was used to. Neither one of them exuded the contagious excitement for the study that had made their Georgetown presentations so successful, according to her sources. In retrospect, she decided that maybe the worry over Charlie was too fresh. There was still some residual stress. She had proposed this lecture in part because Larry was here. Now that Charlie had been found, and his injuries were not too severe, Larry would probably head back to D.C. this weekend, and she had wanted to arrange a sneak preview of his anticipated spring visit to CalSci.

Millie sincerely hoped this…performance…was not a sample of what was to come. Students were restless, inattentive; a few had even left. This was almost embarrassing.

A coed brushed past her, murmuring, "excuse me" as she exited the lecture, and Millie sighed as she took a seat in the last row.

Strike that. Not "almost" embarrassing.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Megan exited the D.C. Assistant Director's office with her shoulders squared and her head held high.

She wasn't sorry. Nor did she believe that she had acted too soon.

She loved the excitement, the _importance_ of D.C. – and she knew the promotion, SAC of the D.C. office – was good for her career. When Larry had agreed to come with her, and found happiness of his own so soon at Georgetown, Megan knew she could make it work.

Yet from the beginning, there had been things she missed. She had left many friends behind in Los Angeles. And the weather! It was already colder than a witch's tit in D.C., and it was only October! She dreaded the snow of winter. As far as the work…she missed the fieldwork more than she thought she would. In D.C., SAC was mostly an administrative position. She was not part of one specific team, and she rarely got into the field.

What had really taken her by surprise was how much she missed Alan Eppes. Her relationship with her biological father was strained, at best; there was a lot of water under a bridge that had been washed out more times than she cared to admit. Even with Larry's encouragement and support, she found she couldn't hope for much more than civility between them. During the years she had known Alan, he had endeared himself to her so deeply; she wasn't even really aware of it until he was halfway across the country. He was so open, loving, supportive. When she had come down with the flu just six months after joining the L.A. office, he had come to her apartment every day, bearing homemade chicken soup. God, she loved that man. It hurt her now, physically, to think what this must be doing to him. Not to mention to Don, and to Charlie himself.

No, she hadn't been wrong to request the transfer, even though it meant taking a demotion. Family came first.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

Amita had noticed the disappointed expression on Millie's face before the department head slipped out of the lecture hall. A small core of loyal students had stayed to the bitter end – had even been complimentary – but there were no questions during the Q and A period. Even the freshmen hoping for some sort of elusive 'extra credit' had been anxious to leave.

She despondently gathered together some papers, shoving them haphazardly into a briefcase, while Larry cleaned the white board. They were alone now in the lecture hall, and she spoke without turning to look at him. "_That_ was a train wreck," she said, unknowingly echoing Dr. Shaw.

Larry didn't seem to have a response to that, other than a mild "Hmmm."

She sighed and turned to face the white boards, leaning on the desk. "You embarrassed me in front of the Eppes."

He turned around at that, lifting an eyebrow. "It's unfortunate you feel that way. I rather thought you did that yourself when you were inhaling Dr. Rastenbaum's tongue."

Amita blushed, and blinked back angry tears. "I thought you and I were friends, Larry. Can you only be friends with people who make no mistakes, experience no confusion?"

He hesitated, then gently laid his eraser in the tray of the white board before crossing the distance between them. "I'm sure you're correct," he said gently. "An apology is no doubt in order." Amita opened her mouth to speak, but Larry held up a hand to stop her. "I need for you to understand something, Amita. When Charles came to Princeton as a young prodigy of 13, I was only in my second year of teaching there." He lifted his mouth in a wry smile. "It may not surprise you to learn that I was somewhat socially backward, myself; in addition, I was 10 to 15 years younger than most of my colleagues – as Charles is, now. I assure you, Margaret Eppes was a formidable woman. Even 20 years ago, in the late 80s, she was suspect of a 23-year-old man befriending her underage son. I respected that. Much of my time with Charles was spent in Margaret's presence, or with large groups of students. In the beginning, his mind fascinated me. He coauthored his first research paper with me when he was only 14; during his years at Princeton, we published three different papers together. When he graduated, I encouraged him to accept the fellowship at MIT, and later, at Oxford. Eventually we were reunited here at CalSci, as colleagues. His mind still fascinates me, Amita – but over the last ten years, I have grown to admire his heart even more. Charles is one of my oldest and dearest friends. He is truly one of the most gentle souls I know." Here, Larry's expression hardened. "He is also one of the most vulnerable. In the best of times, he feels things very deeply. He is easily wounded. He loves with difficulty, but commits completely when he does. You agreed to marry him. Your _'mistake'_ is a betrayal, and I cannot look the other way. At the very least you must tell him, and I worry that hearing such news at this point in time could be too much." He grunted with a certain sarcasm. "Who knows what cost will be exacted by the betrayal of Morrison, a man he considered a friend. Charles has never needed the support of those who claim to love him more than he does now."

Amita allowed a hot tear to escape, and it ran unchecked down her cheek and dripped off her chin. "It was never my intention to hurt him," she whispered.

Larry's face softened. "I see that it was not," he finally allowed. "It is easier for me to express anger toward you than to feel yet another friend's pain. I sincerely apologize for my behavior." He swallowed and hardened his voice – and his heart – again. "That does not mean that I will not choose sides, if I am forced," he informed her. "Please do not put me in that position. You must tell Charles, and soon, regardless of the difficulty."

A sound at the door distracted them both. Larry looked up, and Amita twisted her head around to look over her shoulder. Dane Rastenbaum was smiling directly at her, and she hated herself when she felt the tiny leap her heavy heart managed. "I was hoping you'd take time for an early dinner before you head back to the hospital, Dr. Ramanujan." Even across the room, she could see the glint in his eyes. "Perhaps we could get a little deeper into that…_project_…we discussed in your office yesterday. I'm not sure I made my position clear."

Amita slid off the desk and turned to face him, noting as she did the disgust on Larry's face – as if he had stepped in something extremely unpleasant. "I don't think so," she answered somewhat primly. "I haven't seen my fiancé all day, and one of his doctors is staying late this afternoon to speak with me. I'm sure you understand."

Dane accepted her refusal gracefully, shooting a triumphant and arrogant look in Larry's direction before he backed out of door.

Oh, yeah. He was pretty sure every one in the room understood.

**……………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 38


	39. Like Talking to a Wall

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 39: Like Talking to a Wall**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………**

Dr. Shaw asked Alan and Don to allow her some time alone with Charlie. Alan was reluctant, but Don convinced his father to take a late lunch – or early dinner -- at the Resnick cafeteria. The doctor supplied directions and stood in the corridor outside Charlie's room for a few moments, watching them leave. Then she took a deep breath, rapped once on the door, and pushed her way in when there was no response.

She stood just inside the door for awhile, regarding the lump in the hospital bed. The patient was on his side, facing the wall. He was also obviously awake. She could see his long eyelashes move in an occasional blink, and his entire body had stiffened when she entered the room. He was no doubt apprehensive about the intentions of his visitor, but unwilling -- or unable -- to so much as look over his shoulder to see who it was. It was only a few moments before he began to shake, and the blinking became more rapid. Dr. Shaw could feel the fear radiating from him in palpable waves.

She cleared her throat and started walking and talking at the same time. "My name is Sondra Shaw, Dr. Eppes. I'm a crisis counselor here at Resnick, and Dr. Smithfield asked me to see you." Dr. Shaw had reached the room's only chair, which Alan had been sitting in all morning. It was fairly close to the bed, and she reached to draw it back a little, so that her position was less threatening. "May I sit down?" she asked. Charlie did not respond, which didn't surprise her much. She sat anyway, arranging herself comfortably in the chair and resting Charlie's file on her lap.

She continued to speak in a gentle, friendly tone. "Dr. Eppes -- Charlie -- I want to make sure you understand exactly why you're here at Resnick. Your physical injuries are manageable on an outpatient basis at this time, but hospital personnel have become concerned about your emotional withdrawal. Because of that, you were transferred into this unit. We're part of the UCLA medical campus. I can provide a basic overview of your physical state. If you would like more detailed information, I can arrange for Dr. Smithfield to answer any questions you might have." She paused a few seconds and then opened his file. "The most serious of your injuries are probably your two fractured ribs; I'm sure you've noticed some pain with movement and deep breathing. Doctors previously used compression wraps or tape to secure these types of fractures, but that is rarely done anymore. We have found that it can interfere with breathing and encourage pneumonia. Now, ribs are left to heal on their own -- which generally takes one or two months. Over-the-counter anti-inflammatories should help control the pain from your ribs, as well as from a fractured finger on your left hand, and some rather extensive bruising. X-rays show that your recently fractured nose has healed well."

Dr. Shaw stopped again and gave Charlie a minute to process the information before she went on, this time approaching more delicate territory. "Because you were sexually assaulted, Charlie, doctors have done tests for various STDs -- including HIV. Everything looks good so far, but many STDs take time to appear. Several tests need to be repeated in four weeks, and the HIV test should be repeated in six months. We can discuss certain prophylactic, preventative medications until that time." Sondra could see increased movement below the sheets; Charlie was experiencing some significant tremors, and she waited for them to stop and his breathing to return to normal.

It was over four minutes before she spoke again, in the same gentle, modulated tone she had used all along. "Charlie, your family told me you appreciate numbers. I have some for you." She leaned forward just a little in the chair, her face serious. "During their lifetimes, 1 in 6 women -- and 1 in 33 men -- will be sexually assaulted. There is a sexual assault every two minutes in this country. 73 percent of rape victims know their attackers." She leaned forward a little more, and placed a hand on the bed, but was careful not to touch the patient. "This is the most important number, Charlie. What happened to you was 100 percent Not. Your. Fault."

A sound emerged from Charlie for the first time since Dr. Shaw had entered the room. She accurately identified his sob and sat back again. She made a note to request pain medication for him when she left -- the way his chest was heaving was certain to aggravate his rib injury. Charlie made no other noises, not even acknowledgments of that pain. At length, Sondra began to speak again. "Charlie, rape is about power -- not sex. The rapist uses force and violence to take control over another human being. I understand that you know the man who assaulted you. During your relationship, did he ever simply _ask_ you if you were interested in consensual relations with him? I've been doing this a long time, Charlie, and I'm willing to bet not; or, he did and you refused, so he decided to make you realize that it wasn't really your choice. Regardless of anything he may have told you, he was never interested in any form of equality. He wanted to control you -- and did whatever he had to, to make that happen. In addition to the physical beatings, a toxicology report showed trace evidence of Rohypnol, a common 'date-rape' drug."

Charlie started talking to the wall, his unused voice raspy and soft. "I was pretty sure he drugged me. But I... I..." He sighed, and Sondra's own ribs twinged in sympathy. "It was still my fault."

She took an educated guess at what might be behind his last statement. "Stimulation, or pressure on the prostrate gland, will cause a reaction in any man who does not have a medical condition preventing such a response, Charlie. Erection and ejaculation are normal biological functions that in and of themselves, do not denote desire."

"Stop!" Charlie cried out, moaning for the first time since Dr. Shaw had entered the room. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

Sondra had actually accomplished more than she had hoped with this session, and she stood to leave. "There are specialists who deal with male rape victims," she offered softly. "I can make a referral for outpatient treatment."

She wasn't sure Charlie heard her. He was sobbing in earnest now, his arms wrapped around his ribs. "Go away," he pled before moaning again. "God. It hurts."

"I'll get you some medication," Sondra Shaw promised. Then she turned to leave the room, having never seen her patient's face.

**………………………………………………………………………**

Alan pretended to eat his meatloaf while Don answered his cell. "Hey." He could tell from the soft tone Don used that the caller was familiar, probably Robin. Don had just started to calm down a little over his own meal, but now Alan was dismayed to watch his son's facial expression grow closed, and hard. "Already?"

Alan stirred the mashed potatoes around on his plate and blatantly eavesdropped. Don's face darkened, if that was possible, and he fairly growled into the phone. "You're kidding. House arrest until the trial?" Alan's heart sank closer to his toes and Don shook his head adamantly. "I don't give a rat's ass about the current state of jail overcrowding. There's enough evidence to take this bastard out and shoot him right now! Save the state the cost of a damn trial."

Others in the cafeteria were beginning to glance toward their table, and Alan murmured his son's name. "Donny…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Don was saying into his cell. "Damn piece of…." He changed the subject suddenly. "Listen, if you come to the hospital tonight, you need to come to Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital; it's part of the UCLA campus. Charlie was transferred."

He continued to speak to Robin for a few more seconds before he abruptly flipped the phone shut and glared over his turkey at his father. "I should have shot that son of a bitch when I had the chance."

**………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie's psychiatrist, Dr. Smithfield, happened to be at the nurse's station when Sondra Shaw arrived to request pain medication for the patient. The two convened for an impromptu consultation, after which Smithfield himself took a syringe full of relief into Charlie's room.

Smithfield was encouraged when he found that Dr. Eppes was no longer openly sobbing -- although the moist brightness of his eyes suggested that he was indeed dealing with his situation. Even better, he had assumed a position on his back. The doctor smiled as he approached Charlie's IV port. "I have some morphine for you," he stated kindly, but paused with his hand in mid-air when Charlie's eyes widened and the patient began a painful scoot to the far side of the bed.

"Please don't," Charlie begged. "Please, it doesn't hurt that badly. I'm sorry; I won't complain anymore. Please!"

He was rapidly becoming distraught again, and Smithfield lowered his hands and tried to remember the specifics of this case. When he did, his voice was tinged with understanding sympathy. "It's all-right, Dr. Eppes. I won't inject any medication. I can see why you might find that disturbing."

Charlie blinked at him distrustfully. "It... doesn't hurt...," he whispered again.

Smithfield suppressed a wince, wondering if the poor man had begged his assailant to stop with those same words. Still, he kept his tone level and matter-of-fact. "You have fractured ribs, Dr. Eppes; I'm sure there is pain. Would you be more comfortable with something less strong, perhaps administered by mouth? I dislike seeing a patient in pain."

Charlie stayed on his back, but turned his head so that he was looking at the wall. Smithfield watched a tear leak from the corner of his eye. "I'm really all-right," Charlie argued.

"Very well," the doctor acquiesced, realizing how important it was for Charlie to feel that he had choices, again. "Please ring for the nurse later if you find you need something." Charlie nodded silently, still looking at the wall, and Smithfield cleared his throat while he took a seat in the bedside chair. "I hope that you found Dr. Shaw's visit helpful. She concurs with me that you can be released as early as Sunday. We'd like to leave you on IV fluids for another 24 hours to combat the dehydration and malnutrition -- but we'll also be introducing some clear liquids this evening." He smiled, even though Charlie wasn't looking at him; at least the patient had moved his head again, and was staring at the ceiling. "If you tolerate that well," he continued, "we'll move on to something more recognizable as food tomorrow." Charlie nodded slightly. Smithfield stood. "Dr. Shaw will see you again tomorrow, and compile some referrals for you; both she and I encourage you to seek outpatient therapy."

Charlie didn't respond to that at all, but the doctor didn't apply too much significance to his silence. As it was, the patient had taken great leaps this afternoon. "I'll be in tomorrow evening as well," he continued. "If everything looks good, I'll leave tentative orders for you to be released Sunday morning."

Charlie nodded again, and winced slightly as a deep sigh escaped him. The doctor hesitated as he started to turn away; then turned back around to face Charlie again. "I don't always say this," he admitted, "but you'll be fine. You're lucky to have such a good support system. I met your brother earlier; he seems very concerned."

_That's because I embarrassed him in front of the team_, Charlie thought, remaining mute.

Smithfield found the lack of visible reaction odd, but he was late for a consultation on another patient. He glanced at his watch. "Well. Tomorrow, then."

Charlie just blinked, and sighed again. _Sure. Why the hell not._

**………………………………………………………………………**

Amita was waiting for Sondra Shaw by the time the psychologist got back to her office. "Thank you for seeing me so late," Amita said as she settled herself in a chair. "How is Charlie?"

The doctor tossed Charlie's file on her desk and then chose a chair facing Amita. "I was actually quite pleased with his response this afternoon," she shared. "He was transferred here to Resnick because the level of his withdrawal was causing some concern."

Amita nodded. "I talked to his father on the phone earlier, and he told me." Naked hope shone in her eyes as she regarded Sondra. "But he's better?"

Shaw smiled. "I think so; but I'd like to talk about you for a moment, Amita."

Dr. Ramanujan looked both confused and apprehensive. "Me? Why? Did someone say something?"

The psychologist's smile faltered a little at the strange response. "N...no. It's standard procedure to arrange a meeting with the patient's family; I understand you're engaged to be married to Charlie?"

Amita unconsciously looked at her ring, and then back to the doctor. "Yes," she replied simply.

Further taken aback -- the woman didn't even smile when she said that -- Shaw resettled in the chair, uncrossing her legs and then re-crossing them in the opposite direction. "I see. How do you feel about what Charlie has been through?"

Amita looked away. "It's horrible, of course. Missing all that time."

The doctor cleared her throat. "I'd like to speak specifically about the sexual assault."

Amita winced, then looked down at her hands in her lap. She swallowed thickly and blinked a few times. Finally she answered the doctor's question without looking up from her lap. "I wish he had listened to us. Both his brother and I tried to warn him about that...man." She glanced up, then, and her face was a mask of anger. "Why didn't he listen?"

Sondra was careful to keep her voice firm, but non-threatening. "I hope you do not intend to ask Charlie that. Dr. Eppes needs unconditional support and love from those closest to him; not second-guessing. He's doing enough of that already."

Amita looked a little taken aback. "Charlie appreciates honesty..." she started, then blushed furiously and averted her eyes again when she realized what she'd said.

Dr. Shaw tried to read Amita's nonverbal cues. "I'm not suggesting lying to him," she clarified. "I do encourage you to look at the bigger picture. Pummeling Charlie with 'whys' and 'what-ifs' contains no benefit to him. Through no fault of his own, Dr. Eppes was held against his will, brutally beaten, violently raped -- even worse, someone he trusted as a friend did these things to him. You are correct in assuming that this is not the time to lie to Charlie about anything -- if there ever _is_ such a time. Right now, I'm not sure he could withstand further betrayal."

Amita's blush deepened and she showed even greater discomfort. Dr. Shaw hated to get further into the conversation with so much unsaid, but it was obvious the young woman wasn't going to respond. Shaw changed the subject. "Forgive me, Dr. Ramanujan...Amita..., but there is no unobtrusive way to ask you this. Are you and Dr. Eppes sexually active?"

Amita started as if slapped and she finally looked at Shaw again. "What?"

Dr. Shaw repeated her question, adding, "It's important that you think about how each of you might react when next you approach intimacy. In addition, it will be six months before we have definitive answers regarding certain STDs and HIV; you will need to take precautions. "

Amita's mouth gaped slightly and her eyes took on a slightly glazed look. She had been so worried about Charlie, and so confused about Dane, that it had been easy not to think things through this far. She shivered as unbidden images flashed through her mind: Charlie with another man, and the things that man must have done to him. "STDs?" she repeated dumbly. "HIV?"

Dr, Shaw nodded sympathetically. "According to law enforcement sources, Charlie's assailant has participated in relationships with men before."

"Oh, God," Amita moaned, burying her face in her hands. Although muffled, her next words were still clear to Sondra Shaw. "I'm not sure I can touch him again – or let him touch me!" She lifted a stricken, tear-stained face. "I'm a horrible person," she announced.

Dr. Shaw protested gently. "No, Amita – this is a horrible situation, for everyone." She shifted uncomfortably before she dropped the hammer. "It's imperative for you to explore your own feelings about this," she said, "and I cannot stress again the importance of being supportive and honest with Charlie. Perhaps you shouldn't visit, this evening – he'll no doubt pick up on your stress and uncertainty."

The tears began to run down Amita's face unchecked. "Oh, God," she said again. "I'll have to tell him. I'll have to tell him about kissing Dane!"

Dr. Shaw sat back in her chair, finding herself for once in a position often taken by her patients.

She was speechless.

**………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 39


	40. Damaged Goods

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 40: Damaged Goods**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don and Alan had been gratified, if a little stunned, to find Charlie flat on his back sleeping, a bowl of half-eaten gelatin on the bedside table in front of him.

"Damn. She's good," Don murmured, and Alan poked him in the ribs.

"Language," he reprimanded mildly. The two had stopped just a few feet past the doorway, and now Alan moved to the bed. He pushed the rolling table down to the foot of the bed and reached out a hand to brush Charlie's curls from his bruised face. His hand hovered over his son's forehead and he stopped, suddenly second-guessing himself. He didn't want to awaken Charlie – or worse, frighten him. Much had been required of Alan during his 66 years on this earth, but he doubted if anything had ever been more difficult than not touching his boy at that moment.

He pulled his hand back and sighed, turning to walk back towards Don, who was still rooted to the floor near the door. "You stay with him," he whispered. "I'm going to see if I can find one of those doctors."

At the nurses' station, Alan was disappointed to learn that both Drs. Smithfield and Shaw had left for the evening. A sympathetic RN was willing to call Smithfield on the phone, however, and the doctor filled Alan in on the events of the late afternoon, as well as his tentative plans to release Charlie on Sunday.

Alan's step – and his heart – had lightened considerably when he began the return trek to Charlie's room. Halfway there, he veered into a small alcove with several comfortable leather chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle. There was a sign on the wall that indicated cell phone use was allowed in this area, and Alan chose a chair as far away from the alcove's other occupant as he could, and pulled out his phone. A group of Larry's former CalSci students and fellow faculty had taken him to dinner, but he knew the professor intended to cut the evening short and be at the hospital no later than 7:30. Alan called him now to explain that Charlie seemed better, and was finally getting some much-needed rest. Larry should stay with his friends and skip visiting hours tonight; he and Alan would come together bright and early the next morning.

Next, he called Amita, frowning slightly as he listened to her cell ring. Frankly, he was surprised she wasn't here already. When he had talked to her around noon, she had spoken as if she was coming right after her presentation with Larry. His call went to voice mail, and his frown deepened. Perhaps she was driving, and unable to answer, he finally decided. Alan left a brief and succinct message, intending to fill in the blanks when he saw Charlie's fiancée later. When he was finished, he headed back for his son's room, a spring in his step for the first time in almost a week.

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Amita thought about driving down the coastline for a while, but in the end, she ended up back at CalSci, not even sure how she had arrived there. She sat in her car in the nearly deserted faculty parking lot, eventually deciding that grading the quizzes she had given to her astrophysics class earlier that day might help settle her nerves.

She should have paid more attention to which cars were still in the parking lot.

When she turned the last corner on the way to her office on the third floor of the math and sciences building, she was surprised and disheartened to see Dane Rastenbaum standing in the corridor, locking the door to his own office.

There was no way to hide her arrival; in the empty building even her light step echoed loudly. Dane turned his head toward her and smiled, his face lighting. "Am….Dr. Ramanujan!" he greeted. "Did you change your mind about dinner?"

She shook her head. "I…forgot some papers," she hedged, fumbling with her keys.

Much to her chagrin, she dropped them. Rastenbaum was quick to arrive at her side, and he gallantly inserted the correct key into the lock. "I'm glad you came back," he confided as he brushed against her arm to push open the door. "I've just received some rather unsettling news."

Amita hurried to place the desk – the largest piece of furniture in the room – between her and Rastenbaum. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, gathering all the papers off the top of her desk and shoving them haphazardly into her briefcase. "Perhaps we can talk about it next week sometime. I really should…go to the hospital…"

To her dismay, Dane sat down in the chair closest to the desk, apparently not planning on going anywhere for the time-being. "I probably should have had an attorney look over the contract before I signed it," he groused. "I was just so flattered to even be considered for a position at CalSci."

Almost against her will, Amita was intrigued. "Your teaching contract?"

Dr. Rastenbaum nodded glumly. "Dr. Finch just left a few minutes ago. She brought a copy with her – showed me a codicil I'd never noticed. Seems when I was hired to replace Dr. Fleinhardt, she must have been holding out hope that he would return at midyear. The contract wasn't for the full school year – just this first semester."

Amita sat down in her chair, a little stunned. "You're kidding. I've never even heard of such an arrangement."

Dane pouted beautifully with the full lips that had so recently been on her own. "Me, neither. Fleinhardt is coming back next semester, and I'm out of a job."

Amita's eyes widened. "What? Larry didn't say anything to me!"

Rastenbaum shrugged. "Maybe he wanted to secure it with Dr. Finch, first. All I know is that he's moving back to L.A. over Winter Break, and will resume his teaching responsibilities here in January."

Amita dropped her eyes to her now-clean desktop. "There can't be a problem with Megan," she mused. "They seemed so happy!"

Rastenbaum leaned forward in the chair. "I think she might be moving back as well – Dr. Finch used the plural "they" a few times."

Amita stood. "I need to call Larry and find out what's going on."

Dane stood and blocked her access to the door. "Dr. Ramanujan. Amita. You can't deny that there's an… attraction between us." Amita gaped at him. "I don't doubt that you have feelings for Dr. Eppes," Rastenbaum continued. "I encourage you to explore the depth of those feelings before you do something you'll regret, just because you feel sorry for him."

"I beg your pardon!" Amita protested hotly.

Dane shrugged again, his muscles rippling below a tight turtle-neck sweater. "Perhaps you should be dating me instead of marrying him."

Amita tossed her hair back and glared at Dane. She slid open the top drawer of her desk and slipped a small hand inside. "Get out of my office," she spat. "My hand is on the emergency call button as we speak. Disappear in the next five seconds, or I call campus security."

Rastenbaum held up his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. "I'm going, I'm going!" His eyes narrowed. "But I've read the _Times_, Amita. I know who Morrison's victim was, even if they didn't release the name. Maybe you should ask yourself how interested you are in damaged goods." He smirked, then, and tilted his head. "Of course, maybe that sort of thing turns you on. After all, you were kissing me before you even knew if Dr. Eppes would ever be found alive – there's definitely something naughty about you."

Amita pushed the button. "Campus security is on the way," she announced. "Keep standing there talking, asshole, and you won't keep your job until the end of the semester."

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie's small room was pretty crowded after Robin arrived. Alan had found two folding chairs in the tiny closet, and the three of them sat for a few moments, looking at the newspaper she had brought along.

Alan read a few paragraphs and passed the folded paper to Don in disgust. "I suppose it was too much to hope for that these vultures wouldn't get hold of this."

Don started reading the main article, about Markus and Elaina. A smaller story and a photo of J.T. Morrison were inset as a sidebar in the middle of the page. "Some pretty big names are involved in this," he murmured, wincing as he read.

Robin crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at Alan. "The truly bad news is that if those people weren't involved, the story would be buried on the back page -- if it made the paper at all. This kind of twisted depravity isn't even _news_, anymore."

Don looked up, his eyes flashing dark with anger. "I don't suppose there's any way to keep Charlie from seeing this shit."

Robin sighed and was about to answer when they were all surprised by the voice of the man in question. "You might as well let me see it now."

All three of his visitors tried to talk him out of it, but when Charlie made as if to get up out of his bed, and said that he would go to the lobby and buy his own paper in the Gift Shop if he had to, Don relented and passed him the _Times_. Charlie's hands shook a little as he regarded the banner headline on the front page: "Grand Jury Hands Down Indictments in Fantasy Case." Charlie took a painful breath, and let his eyes skip down to the story:

_Well-known local philanthropists Markus and Elaina Topov were held over for arraignment by a federal grand jury late last evening in the shocking "Fantasy" trafficking ring. The Topovs, long-time residents of the Los Angeles area, have lent generous financial support to cultural interests here, especially those with a Russian connection. Both Topovs arrived in America from Russia in the late 1950s with student VISAs, and later applied for and obtained asylum._

_According to Assistant US Attorney Robin Brooks, each of the Topovs faces over 500 counts, ranging from violations of child labor laws to kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, international human trafficking and murder. Additional charges are anticipated as further evidence is processed, and Brooks confirms that the prosecution will seek a change of venue in this high-profile case._

_The Topovs are the alleged masterminds behind Fantasy, an elaborate travelling show featuring both legitimate nightclub-style entertainment and back-room dealings for everything from illegal drugs to sexual arrangements. Sources indicate that dozens of L.A.'s rich and famous were clients of Fantasy. (See our sidebar, 'Hollywood Producer to Be Arraigned on Kidnapping and Rape Charges'.)_

At this point, Charlie abandoned the main story and sought out the sidebar in question. It was easy to find, since J.T. Morrison was pictured:

_Longtime Hollywood film producer J.T. Morrison is expected to be arraigned this afternoon on charges including kidnapping and rape. Morrison allegedly arranged for the abduction and unlawful imprisonment__of his victim. The victim's name has not been released, but our sources tell us he is a prominent local citizen. _

_The victim was held at the Fantasy ranch, 50 miles southeast __of Los Angeles, along with dozens of 'performers', many of them underage. Performers, who sources say were controlled with drugs, took part in gymnastics and nightclub shows as well as providing sexual entertainment. _

_Morrison's victim, who was repeatedly beaten and raped during his imprisonment, is expected to testify..._

Charlie stopped reading, folding the paper so that Morrison's picture was out of sight, and laid it carefully on the edge of the bed. Robin and Alan regarded him somewhat warily, but Don stood and took one giant, lurching step, grabbing the newspaper off the bed and looking around for a trash can. "You don't need to worry about this shit right now, Charlie," he growled. "Hell, we just got you to look at _us_ instead of the wall!"

Charlie blinked a few times at the ceiling and then turned his head slightly to look at Robin. "What's going to happen to them?"

She frowned, exchanging a quick glance with Alan. "There are a number of possible sentences," she began.

She stopped when Charlie shook his head. "Not to...them. To the children. The performers."

Don had finally found a trash can to stuff the paper in, and now he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at the floor.

Robin sighed. "It will take some time," she admitted. "Right now, most are in various juvenile group homes in L.A. County. Authorities need to determine each child's origin. Some do not speak very much English -- their first language seems to be Russian. If they were somehow brought here illegally from that country, they will eventually be returned. Others are runaways, or were kidnapped -- the Amber Alert system and state and federal databases need to be consulted. As you can imagine, most need fairly intensive psychological help. There are also physical issues."

Charlie shifted a little in the bed. He glanced at his father, swallowed, and then looked back at Robin. "Could I..." He swallowed again, and looked away. "Never mind. They'd never let me. Damaged goods."

Robin's heart broke at the despair in his voice, and Don's frown grew deeper. Alan, however, questioned his son gently. "Could you what, son?"

Charlie still refused to look at anyone. "I thought maybe I could...foster...one of them, until they find her family. Star. She's so young. She shouldn't be in a group home."

Alan and Don both looked to Robin -- whose only choice was to hedge her bets. She had already spent some time talking to child services, and most of the Fantasy children had some very serious problems. Case workers doubted that they could be placed in traditional foster homes for quite some time -- if ever. "Ch-Charlie," she stammered. "I think that's an admirable aspiration. Being the victim of a violent crime does not preclude someone from serving as a foster parent."

Don had been watching Robin, trying to read her face. He thought he had seen reluctance flash across it for a moment, and he was glad she wasn't shooting his brother down right away. He snorted a little, wandering back to the empty chair next to her and preparing to take a seat. "Well, no shit," he remarked easily. "That would pretty much disqualify at least half the pool right off the bat."

Robin's mouth twitched and she reached over to hold his hand. "Absolutely," she agreed. "Let me talk to some of my contacts at CSD next week. You say her name is 'Star'?"

Charlie risked another glance in her direction. When he decided that no-one was making fun of him, he nodded slowly. "She didn't have an accent, so I don't think she's from Russia. A redhead...kind-of pale -- they weren't allowed outside much." He thought for a moment, and yawned. "Her arm might be in a sling."

Alan noted the yawn. He stood from his chair at the end of the bed. "You get some rest, son. I'm sure Larry gave Amita my message about letting you sleep this evening -- they'll never forgive me if I sit here all night myself!"

Don nodded, standing and pulling Robin up with him. "Dad's right," he concurred. "We'll see you tomorrow -- and bring you home Sunday!"

Charlie blinked tiredly and remained silent, not protesting their departure, but not verbally agreeing with them, either.

Don temporarily let go of Robin's hand and approached the side of Charlie's bed. He clutched the rail tightly in both hands and grinned a little tremulously at his brother, his eyes shining. "I'm glad you're back, Chuck. Whatever happens from here on out -- you're not alone."

Charlie wanted so badly to believe him; he was quite unable to speak with the wanting. But as he raised his eyes to look at Don, he flashed on the scene at the ranch, when the rescue operation found him. _Miserable, disgusting pig_... and earlier, during the fight in the bullpen, Don had said, _I wish you'd never been born_. Yes, it was clear what his brother really thought of him, Charlie reminded himself, turning his head toward the wall again. Don was just saying what Robin, and Dad, expected to hear, now.

As for Charlie....Charlie was stuck with the truth.

**............................................................................................................................................**

End, Chapter 40


	41. Drowning

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 41: Drowning**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Don stepped through the door of the Craftsman late Sunday morning, to find a crowd – Alan, Amita, Larry, and to his surprise, Colby, were there. There was one person notably absent, however - Charlie. Don knew he was there; he was at the hospital when Charlie was discharged, earlier that morning. He nodded at the others, murmuring a greeting, and followed his father as Alan pushed into the kitchen, headed for the coffeepot.

Don leaned against the counter, watching him as he peeled off a new coffee filter. "So where is he?"

"Upstairs," sighed Alan. "In bed, under the covers." In fact, Charlie was curled on his side, facing away from the door, reminiscent of his approach to the world when he was first admitted to the hospital. Yesterday, his last day at the hospital, had been a bad one; he'd had to endure the humiliation of having his sutures removed, and Alan had come into his hospital room afterward to find his face buried in the pillow, which he later noticed was suspiciously damp. Much to his relief, Charlie had managed to rouse himself after that, and at least try to respond when spoken to, but Alan had a sneaking suspicion that Charlie had pulled himself out of his funk just enough to be discharged, and now that he was home, away from the prying doctors, he was back in retreat mode. He looked at Don hopefully. "Why don't you go upstairs and get him up? There is a houseful of people here to see him – he should at least make an appearance."

Don hesitated – he was probably the last person Charlie wanted to see, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse his father – God only knew, Alan could use the help. "Okay," he said, and pushed back out through the kitchen door.

Upstairs, he found himself treading quietly, almost gingerly, as he approached Charlie's room, as if he were literally walking on eggshells. He knocked lightly on the door, and when he didn't get a response, pushed it open a bit. "Charlie."

There was a muffled noise that sounded like a sob, and movement under the covers, and Don's heart sank. Another noise, more aimless writhing, and he realized that his brother was dreaming – and it wasn't a good one. He moved forward, around the bed to the side that Charlie was facing. He was on his side, his face twisted in fear and pain, his eyes still shut. "No," he moaned. "You don't, you don't…"

"Charlie," Don said again, and sank onto the bed, laying a gentle hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Wake up."

The touch was like a bolt of electricity; Charlie flailed wildly, lashing out, and a fist hit Don square in the nose, hard enough that he saw black, then stars. His hand flew to his nose, and when his vision returned, he was looking over his fingertips at Charlie who was now wide-awake and staring at him, horrified. "I'm s-s-sorry," he slurred, and Don realized he was shaking.

He felt his nose carefully to make sure it wasn't bleeding, and then tried a rueful smile. "That's okay, Chuck. I think you owed me one."

Instead of smiling, Charlie laid back down on his side, curled around the pillow he'd been clutching. He was still shaking, and Don regarded him with anxiety. "You okay?"

"Y-yes. N-no. I don't know." The words were a half-whisper.

"You were dreaming."

Charlie nodded, and closed his eyes. "It's always the same," he whispered. "It's always him."

Don felt his chest contract with sympathy. He'd never felt so useless, so helpless in his life. "You were saying something," he said. _'Keep the conversation going, maybe getting it off his chest will help_,' he told himself, although a voice inside him told him he was the last person who should be playing at shrink; he couldn't get a grip on his own feelings – especially when it came to Charlie. "You said, 'you don't.'"

Charlie gave a single nod, a sad weary gesture, his eyes still closed. "He always s-said '_I own you_,' every time he -," He broke off, and his face contracted as he tried to fight off tears.

Don stared at him, feeling rage boiling to the top of his cauldron of emotions. "Well, he doesn't own you, Charlie," he said heatedly. "You're free, and he's not. The State of California owns _him_." He paused; then said more quietly, "There are a lot of people downstairs, here to show their support. You should come down for a while."

Charlie opened his eyes again, staring dully past Don to the window, then sighed, and nodded. "Okay. I'll be down in a minute."

It was more than a minute, but eventually Charlie made his way downstairs. He was wearing a navy T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, both of which hung on his frame, and seeing him in normal clothes made Don realize how painfully thin he'd gotten. He was in need of a haircut; his tousled curls were long even by Charlie's standards, but he'd shaved, at least. His face was composed, but his dark eyes were haunted as he stepped off the last step, and murmured a 'hello' to Colby.

"Hey, there, Charlie," Colby beamed, the cheerfulness a bit strained. He raised a hand to give Charlie a friendly clap on the shoulder, but Charlie flinched at the sudden movement and Colby withdrew it quickly, sticking it awkwardly behind his head and rubbing his neck instead. He shot Don an apologetic glance as Charlie drifted over to the sofa, from which Amita and Larry had risen.

"Sit down, Charlie," Amita fussed nervously. "I'll get you some tea."

Charlie gazed at her a moment – he was blocking her way, and Alan, who had come into the room with coffee, saw a look of longing flash over Charlie's face. Amita looked flustered, uncomfortable, and Alan said, "Sit down, Amita, I'll get it."

She eased around Charlie, giving him a strange, awkward little pat on the arm as she passed him, a feeble concession to the fact that she was trying as hard as she could not to brush against him. "No, that's okay, Alan, let me get it."

Charlie and Larry watched her go; both of them with an odd look. Charlie's was a mixture of discomfort and longing, and Larry's, speculative and oddly reproving. Again, Alan got the same sense he had in the emergency room; the air was rife with emotional undercurrents, the source of which he could only guess.

As noon approached, Colby left, with a muttered excuse. Charlie sat on the sofa, with Larry on the other end. Amita refused to sit, instead puttering about, straightening the living room, offering to help Alan with the laundry, and Don drifted in and out of the room, his face dark. To Charlie, the room seemed crowded, and not just because of the people there. Nervousness and Embarrassment were Amita's constant companions, flanking her every move. Sadness sat on the arm of the sofa next to Larry. And as always these days, Shame and Self-Loathing slunk behind Charlie, and the remnants of Fear lurked in the corner. '_And don't forget Dis_g_ust_,' he thought to himself, catching the dark expression on his brother's face. '_Don's new best friend._' The emotions were palpable, tangible, alive, and they far outnumbered Charlie's shattered sense of self.

Robin's entry at a little before noon brought a breath of fresh air, and relief to at least one occupant in the room. Don's face lightened, he offered her something to drink, and followed her out into the kitchen. Amita shuffled her feet; suddenly wondering where to go – the kitchen had been one of her escape routes, another source of excuses – anything to keep from sitting next to Charlie. As the morning had worn on, she'd grown increasingly agitated inside; it had become painfully obvious that she couldn't bear to be near him, or worse, touch him. All she could think about was that man, Morrison, and what he had done, and although she tried mightily to put it out of her mind, what had happened had given Charlie an aura of filth, which she couldn't erase. '_Maybe it was just the thought of the pending STD tests,'_ she told herself, desperately. '_Maybe once those come back, and I know he's clear, I won't feel that way._'

The anger didn't help – and she _was_ angry. Angry that it had happened, angry that their fairytale engagement had been tarnished, angry at herself, angry at Dane for confusing her, and most of all, angry at Charlie. If only he'd listened to her and Don, this wouldn't have happened. He was stubborn and pig-headed, and refused to _ever_ believe he was wrong. Another part of her chided that he'd always been stubborn and she'd been able to live with that prior to now, and scolded her for feeling angry. He looked so pitiful, he'd been through hell, how could she be angry at him? And so, along with revulsion and anger, guilt came to join the party. Hurt, too – she had thought that she would be the one person Charlie would reach out for, and he'd made no attempt at that; instead he'd remained in his listless cocoon, unreachable. The fact that he couldn't confide in her, lean on her in his time of need made it clear to her that their relationship was not as strong as she thought it had been – hell, had a real relationship existed at all?

She was wading through the thick morass of emotions when she sidled toward the kitchen door, pretending to straighten a picture on the wall nearby. Through the door, she could hear Robin's voice drifting out. "I was able to reach Malia, my contact in CSD. She met me at her office this morning and I spoke to her about Charlie's request to foster Star. We went ahead and filled out some preliminary paperwork; tomorrow's Monday; they'll look at it, first thing. While Malia and I were in the office, I requested some info on Star; in my experience, it's always best to have some idea what's coming…Anyway, she's ten years old, but she's already a seasoned prostitute. She has no concept that what she did was wrong, no concept of real life. She really needs specialized care; I don't know that they'll give her to Charlie – or anyone else, frankly -- for that reason alone. CSD may mandate that she goes to someone trained to deal with emotionally troubled children."

Amita's jaw dropped, and Alan's next words drifted past her, almost unnoticed. "I have doubts myself," he said. "Charlie can barely handle himself right now, much less an emotionally troubled kid."

Amita felt a thick sensation in her throat; Charlie was talking about becoming a foster parent, and hadn't even bothered to mention it to her. He apparently thought so little of her that he hadn't concerned himself with mentioning something that could have an enormous impact on both of their lives. She could feel hot tears rising in her eyes, and knew suddenly that she had to get out of there, away somewhere. She had to think, and she couldn't do it here.

She swallowed; made sure the tears had been suppressed, and pushed through the door. "I, uh, I'm going now," she said, with a brittle smile that she hoped looked apologetic. "I have to input some test grades into the campus computer – I'll be back in a bit."

Alan and Don looked surprised, but Robin raised a speculative eyebrow. "Well, of course," said Alan, trying to hide the disappointment on his face. "Come back as soon as you can, dear."

She nodded, and made for the sofa in the living room. Charlie saw her approach and rose from the sofa, a glimmer of something that she didn't want to recognize struggling to his face. "I have to go now," she said, and watched as a look of disappointment identical to his father's flashed across his features.

Charlie hesitated; then tentatively began to raise his arms as if in anticipation of exchanging a good-bye embrace. She was a surprised by the move. Yesterday, at the hospital, Dr. Shaw had spent a few minutes with her, Alan and Don. The psychologist had encouraged them to let Charlie move at his own pace when it came to re-establishing physical aspects to his relationships. Amita had actually been relieved; she obviously had some issues of her own right now when it came to touching Charlie intimately – or at all, for that matter. From what the woman had said – and not said – Amita had convinced herself that she would not have to deal with their physical relationship for at least a few days, and now she found that she was unprepared for Charlie's movement in her direction. She could see the need on his face; the need for comfort that she was incapable of giving, and she backed away and turned before he could touch her, leaving him standing there with his arms floating in mid-air, like a drowning victim.

**………………………………………….......................................................**

It was around two when Larry took his leave; he had arranged to spend his last night in town with a visit to the monks who had hosted him so well and for so long after his return from space. It had been all he could do to keep silent after Amita's departure; uncharacteristically sharp words had risen to his tongue as Amita turned, leaving Charlie standing there blinking helplessly. He kept his mouth shut, however, fervently hoping that she would find a way to collect her wits, before she threw something precious away. Instead, he smoothly launched into a discussion of the latest conjectures on theories of dimension, as Charlie slowly sank back onto the sofa, with an expression on his face that nearly broke Larry's heart.

By two, Charlie looked exhausted, and Larry knew he should take his leave. Charlie stood when he did, intending to go upstairs for a nap, and they crossed the room together, stopping midway between the stairs and front door. Larry glanced from side-to-side, and smiled. "Well, we optimized the distance between three points nicely," he said. "Sofa to door, and sofa to stairs, in Euclidean geometry, leaves us here, in between."

His attempt to draw Charlie out softened his friend's features, but didn't quite elicit a smile. Larry looked at him and said, "I have to go back to Washington tomorrow, but I wanted to let you know, Charles, that I'm returning next semester."

He saw a flicker of hope in Charlie's eyes, but then concern stole across his friend's face. "What about Megan?"

Larry smiled, shyly. "Megan is considering a return to L.A., as well. I can't provide details yet, but we've both decided that we'd like to come back." His smile faded, and he looked in Charlie's eyes, earnestly. "While I'm gone, promise me you'll work on recovering. You've encountered a horrible twist in the continuum of your existence, and just the fact that you're here is a triumph. Let that be inspiration and solace to you, as you continue your recovery. I'll see you soon, my friend, in just a few weeks, and then I'll be back to stay."

He could see in Charlie's face that his friend had taken some comfort from his words, but there was also a fleeting look of desperation in his eyes, and Larry suspected that his departure was causing some discomfort, some anxiety, especially in his friend's fragile state of mind. He gave Charlie a reassuring smile as he left, but inside, he could feel a new pit of apprehension seed itself, and begin to grow.

**………………………………………….......................................................**

End, Chapter 41


	42. Just a Little More Time

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 42: Just a Little More Time**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………….......................................................**

It was Wednesday when Robin called Don at the office and asked if there was any way he could take part of the afternoon off. "Remember my friend Malia, from CSD?" she asked. Don indicated that he did, so Robin continued. "She was just here and dropped off a copy of part of an interview CSD staff conducted with Star this morning. We thought if Charlie could see it himself, it might be easier for him to understand CSD's decision."

Don's heart fell. He personally wasn't of the opinion that this fostering idea was a good one in the first place, but he knew it meant a lot to Charlie. Don had found himself almost reluctantly proud of his little brother. Here he'd been through the first five layers of hell already, was still facing at least two more -- and he was thinking about the other victims of the Fantasy operation, concerned for them. Not for the first time, Don decided that Charlie's heart was too big for his own good. "No go, huh?" was all he said.

Robin confirmed his suspicions. "CSD feels that Star needs a very structured group environment, and extensive therapy. She'll be staying where she is for the time-being."

"Charlie won't like that," predicted Don dryly.

"That's why I was hoping you and your father could be there when he watched the tape," Robin answered. "Of course, I'll be there as well -- but Charlie feels more comfortable with you."

Don snorted. "I'm not so sure I agree with that anymore," he admitted. "He's been avoiding me ever since we got him back." Robin heard an indecipherable shout in the background, and Don sighed. "We're providing Richardson's team with some back-up during a take-down this afternoon," he shared. "Leaving for the field now."

Robin frowned. "Watch your back."

"That's your job," Don teased. "Don't think I haven't seen you do it." Robin laughed, too surprised to protest, and Don smiled into the phone. "Listen, there won't be any paperwork; like I said, we're just back-up -- I'll get to Charlie's as soon as I can -- but you'd better not wait for me."

Robin suppressed her own sigh. "At least your Dad will be there."

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Alan scared Robin half to death when he suggested that she stay with Charlie while he ran to the market. She paled so dramatically that she didn't even have to ask him to stay; Alan changed his own mind immediately.

"Robin, sweetheart, maybe you should take the rest of the afternoon off and rest," he suggested.

From the vicinity of the couch, Charlie spoke. "I'll go upstairs if you don't want to be alone with me."

Both Alan and Robin looked at him in surprise. "What?" Alan asked; "Don't be ridiculous," Robin said at the same time. The two glanced at each other, then, and simultaneous "Excuse me's" came out of their mouths.

Robin finally shook her head, a bemused smile on her face, and moved closer to the couch to place her briefcase on the coffee table. Without looking at Charlie, she opened it and removed a DVD from inside. "My friend at CSD brought this by today," she said. She offered the disk to Alan. "Could you put this in the player for me?" Finally, she took a seat next to Charlie on the couch and looked at him. "One of the caseworkers interviewed your friend Star this morning. This is going to be difficult to watch, Charlie, but I hope it will help you understand some things."

Charlie straightened a little on the couch but didn't answer. Alan joined them, handing Robin the remote and then sitting on the opposite end of the sofa from his son, leaving Robin in the middle. After a veiled look in his direction, she pressed 'Play'.

The interview was obviously already in progress. Star was sitting on the floor at a small table, busily coloring on a piece of paper. The camera angle showed plainly that she was choosing only the darkest crayons available to her. She seemed to be scribbling one black cloud after the other.

On the other side of the table a woman about Robin's age also sat on the floor, watching Star. "I'd also like to talk to you about your living arrangements, Star."

The little girl shrugged but did not look up. "This dorm is nice. We don't get our vitamins, but the food is better."

The woman nodded. "I'm glad. Star, do you think you might want to live someplace where there aren't as many children? Sometimes we can arrange what we call 'foster homes'. When you live in one of them, it's more like being in a family."

At this, Star looked up. "What's that?"

Her questioner didn't so much as blink. "Well, families can be different from each other. Some have a mother, and a father."

Star nodded seriously. "I think I had a mother -- before the ranch. I don't know what happened to her. I never had a father, but sometimes Hyacinth would talk about having one. Comet said he had a sister, once."

The woman nodded. "Families often have more than one child -- but not as many as there are here."

Star looked a little surprised. "There's hardly _anyone_ here! We had a lot more at the ranch."

"Yes, you did," agreed the CSD worker mildly. "Star, the family you might want to go live with contains two men. One of them, a man a little younger than me, would be like your father. His biological father lives with him as well, so he would be like your grandfather."

Star frowned. "No other kids?"

The woman shook her head. "No, Star...but you _do_ know one of these men. He was at the ranch with you, and he would like to provide a safe place for you to live. Do you remember Charlie?"

Star's face lit up. "Oh!" She immediately looked disappointed. "He wouldn't sleep with me. I don't know why. I told him I would do whatever he wanted." She looked pensively down at her paper. "Does he want to give me to his father, maybe?" She looked back up, and seemed to make a decision. "I guess that would be okay. I liked Charlie -- he was cute." Her expression was earnest. "I'd do 'em both, if he wants. I'd like to be able to prove to him that I can be just as good in bed as Hyacinth." She sighed and returned her attention to her morbid clouds. "I wish there was other kids, though."

The recording disintegrated to a field of white snow, and Robin quietly depressed the 'off' button. She placed the remote gently on top of her briefcase before turning her head to look at Charlie. "I'm sorry," she started. "CSD feels that Star isn't ready for normal foster care just yet..." Her voice trailed off at the sight before her. Charlie was slumped into the corner of the couch, staring at the wall over the television. His shoulders were shaking, and silent tears were running unchecked down his face.

Although she didn't have any idea what she was going to say, Robin opened her mouth to speak again but was rendered speechless when Alan patted her on the knee as he stood from his own perch on the couch. "Thank-you for asking, dear," he said gently, trying his best to ignore his son; a heart should be allowed to break privately, Alan believed. He offered Robin a wobbly smile. "Do you have time for tea?"

**………………………………………….......................................................**

About an hour after Robin's departure, Alan went upstairs. Charlie had gone up as soon as she'd left, and was lying on his side on his bed, by now, a familiar position. He was staring blankly at the wall, and Alan sighed, and sank onto the bed next to him. "Charlie, I know that was hard to hear, but perhaps it's for the best. Star is going to need a lot of attention – attention by mental health professionals, things that we couldn't give her here. Besides, you have healing to do yourself, son. What you wanted to do was very noble, but it's just not a good idea, right now. I'm sure Amita told you the same thing."

Charlie blinked, a slow close-then-open, and responded dully. "I didn't talk to her."

Alan frowned. Amita had been conspicuously absent since Sunday, although she _had_ been back at school, and no doubt very busy there, what with helping to cover Charlie's workload. "You two don't seem to be talking much. Perhaps you should call her – maybe she feels you're not up to visitors."

'_She doesn't want to be anywhere near me,'_ Charlie thought, remembering her evasive maneuver when he tried to hug her before she left. '_The CSD people don't want Star anywhere near me. I'm tainted…_'

"I did call her," he finally answered. "I left a message yesterday. She hasn't returned the call."

Alan stared at him, trying to fathom what on earth was happening in their relationship. They'd been inseparable, engaged – it seemed incomprehensible to him that Charlie wasn't seeking her out, and that she wasn't here, to comfort him, at least in her free time. Perhaps they could both benefit from some counseling, he thought. "You start therapy sessions next week," he said. "Perhaps you could ask the therapist to set up a session with Amita, also. I'm sure this is overwhelming for her, too."

Charlie simply nodded disinterestedly and closed his eyes, and Alan was left with the impression that he'd been dismissed. He looked at Charlie sadly for a moment – he looked so thin, so drained, so pale and broken, that Alan had to fight the instinctive urge of a father to gather him in his arms. He couldn't though, he knew – the doctor had told them that Charlie should initiate physical contact, and Alan intended to honor those instructions. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he rose quietly, and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Charlie opened his eyes, but lay there, motionless. The truth was, he could feel himself slipping into something – deep, dark, alone. It was frightening, but the real world was just as unbearable. He had come to the realization that he wanted to feel the security of his father's arms, the warmth of Amita's hug – some contact from another human who cared for him. He could remember how it felt, but it seemed a long time ago, on the other side of an abyss. He could sense, however, their hesitation to touch him. _Tainted…_He felt like a leper in an isolation ward, staring out at the normal people from behind a wall of glass. That contact, he felt, was one of the two things that could keep him from slipping into – that dark something, that thing that was so black and nebulous he couldn't put a name on it.

The other thing that could have helped was already an impossibility – the request to foster Star. It had been something on which to focus, to channel his thoughts into something good, something productive – helping another soul marred by the filth that was _Fantasy_. And now, that was gone. He'd known it as he watched the video, known what the CSD's verdict was, known what Robin was going to say even before she said it. His emotional reaction, how much it hurt, surprised even him, until he realized he was mourning for Star, he was mourning for what had been taken from him, and he was mourning losing one more thing that allowed him to hope for the future.

He was down to one thing now, one thing that could save him – and she wouldn't touch him, hadn't called since Sunday. He couldn't even ponder what that meant – he didn't dare, because if she left, the last piece of his battered soul would flicker, gutter like a waning candle, and die. "She just needs a little time to deal with it," he told himself, and closed his eyes. A tear seeped out of one of them, and traced a shining path down his cheek. "She just needs a little more time…"

**………………………………………….......................................................**

The following Monday, Don stared at the stack of paper in front of him. Feeling overwhelmed by the job was a new experience for him – oh, he'd wrestled with the darker side of it more than once; in fact, that was an ongoing battle. He'd been pushed to his physical limits on some cases, spending hours without sleep, but he'd never felt he was facing something that he couldn't handle. Until now.

The mass of individual investigations connected with the case was staggering. Hundreds of names were associated with the inquiry, ranging from Hollywood stars to L.A. socialites to foreign princes. Each of them had to be interviewed, and determination made as to their guilt or innocence. A distinction was being made by the prosecutor – those with a bronze pass, who never made it past the front rooms, were not being prosecuted. The problem was, although they had a list of clients, Elaina Topov had managed to destroy the lists of pass assignments – there was no way to tell which of the people on that list had silver passes and which had gold. Pictures of the defendants were being shown to the _Fantasy_ performers, in the hopes that some of them might identify clients, but the prosecutor was using extreme caution. It was highly unlikely they would push a case based on the testimony of a bunch of unknown prostitutes against the reputations of stars and business moguls. In fact, unless LAPD and the FBI uncovered other hard evidence, there was a good chance that most of the party attendees would walk.

Don took comfort in the fact that the cases against J.T. Morrison and Elaina and Markus Topov seemed to be solid, at any rate. Evidence against the Topovs was plentiful, even without Charlie's testimony as a government witness, which would be damning. And Morrison, that bastard… with the tape and Charlie's testimony, he'd be put away for a while. LAPD had people digging into his background, and they'd come up with two other possible witnesses, both young men who'd been abused, then blackmailed into silence by Morrison. Yes, that case was going to be a slam-dunk. In a rare collaboration, the US Attorney's office was working with the district attorney, and Robin had told him they would be seeking a change of venue. He didn't care if he had to take all his vacation time and travel halfway across the country; Don couldn't wait to see the look on Morrison's face when the verdict was read.

Colby and David drifted over, and Colby sat on the edge of the desk, glancing down at Morrison's picture, which Don had set off to the side with the case file. As if reading Don's mind, he muttered, "Prison's going to be too good for that one. Sick son of a bitch is probably gonna enjoy it."

"Uh uh." David shook his head emphatically. "He's all about dominance and control, and he won't have any there. It'll drive him crazy." He looked at Don. "We'll take some of those files from you – we're about done with the ones we have."

Don shook his head morosely. "I don't know why we're bothering. The prosecutor's probably not going to try any of them."

"They may tackle some of them. The latest we got was that they at least wanted to pursue any suspected crime figures – there are a couple of wealthy guys on the list with ties to the mob. I guess the prosecutor figures if they already have a shady background, some of the charges may stick." David looked at Don, who had fallen silent. "How's Charlie doing?"

Don sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know. Not good. He's shut down right now – it's like -," he gestured vaguely with a hand, "– he's in his own world, he's not even trying. Amita stopped by this weekend, and man, it was bad. They hardly spoke to each other – I've never seen either of them so uncomfortable." Frustration and regret were evident in his voice. "He's got an appointment with a therapist tomorrow, maybe that will help."

"What he went through - that's a lot to deal with," said Colby softly.

"I know," admitted Don. "Sometimes, though, I just want to light a fire under him – get some kind of reaction – upset, pissed, _something_. Get him to fight. He's just retreating."

"He'll get there," said Colby reassuringly, as they turned back toward their desks. "He just needs a little more time."

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Charlie was sitting hunched by the koi pond, wrapped in one of Alan's jackets, when he heard the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. He hoped that maybe it was Amita, and then again, he hoped it wasn't. Her visit on Saturday had made it obvious that she still wasn't dealing with this well, and Charlie was afraid he wouldn't make it through another session like that.

His mind drifted back to Sunday afternoon. The strained silences, followed by a flustered move on her part - straightening the paper, scurrying to help Alan in the kitchen, or with the laundry – anything to keep from being in the room for too long. It almost seemed to him that she was keeping something from him – probably an unquenchable feeling of disgust. Even in his addled state, it hadn't escaped him that Megan had called him more than Amita had, during the past several days. He sighed, dejectedly, guiltily. That was another issue – Larry and Megan, returning to L.A. Larry had obviously not gotten the fact that Charlie wasn't worth uprooting their lives.

In addition to Amita, Don had been there too, Sunday, but his presence didn't help – he sat and glowered – about what, Charlie had no idea, but he was sure it had to do with him. He tried to avoid looking at him, to dodge the memory of their fight, or his brother's exclamation when he was found – in his fragile state of mind; he couldn't take any more disapproval or rejection. So he tried to forget, pretend it didn't exist. And the only way he could do that was to avoid him. So he did – avoided conversation, avoided Don's eyes, retreated like a turtle into its shell.

His father's voice, floating across the yard, pulled him out of his reverie and back into the present. "Charlie, Agent Leach is here to see you!"

Charlie winced – Leach, he was sure, was here for information about the case – the last thing he wanted to discuss. He sighed, rousing himself from the bench. Really, he needed to go inside anyway, and call Millie. The last couple of days had found him, strangely enough, reminiscing about campus. It was a sanctuary of sorts for him, and always had been. He wasn't up to lecturing yet, but maybe there was research or something that Millie could give him to do. He could sit quietly in his office, and get his mind off the dark thoughts, and onto something productive.

He stepped inside and made his way to the living room with an air of resignation. Leach put out a hand, but stared, obviously taken aback, and it made Charlie wonder if he looked as debased as he felt. After a moment, Leach realized that Charlie wasn't going to return the handshake, and he withdrew his hand awkwardly, but held it out again, with an envelope. "I thought you'd like to know, Dr. Eppes," he said, "that because of your efforts on this case, your clearance was reinstated, as we promised. Your paperwork is in there."

Charlie took the envelope and stared at it a moment, then managed a quiet, "Thank you."

"Thank you, Dr. Eppes. Your country appreciates your service and your – sacrifice."

The words were kind, but Leach was obviously a bit flustered, and his hesitation before the word 'sacrifice,' made it sound inadvertently sarcastic. Alan showed him out, and Charlie sank to the sofa with the envelope in his hand. This was it – the reason he'd gone undercover to begin with – to regain his clearance. Now it was here, and it meant – nothing. For whom did he think he would work? Not Don, certainly, now that he knew the truth - his brother obviously only tolerated him for their father's sake.

He looked at it for a long moment, and finally set it down on the table, unopened, and headed back outside to the koi pond. He'd call Millie tomorrow. He just needed a little more time…

**………………………………………….......................................................**

End Chapter 42


	43. Revenge

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 43: Revenge **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Amita sat in her office, dark except for the small lamp on her desk, and twisted the ring on her finger. It was after eight, but she was oblivious to the time. The darkness suited her mood; she'd never felt so horrible, so confused.

She couldn't handle it, couldn't understand or accept the feelings – the violence that had been inflicted on Charlie seemed to cling to him, and try as she might to separate the crime from the victim, she couldn't. She couldn't face him, and definitely couldn't touch him – the thought made her feel sick. And that, in itself, made her feel guilty. It wasn't his fault, she reminded herself – all right, maybe it was in a way; he never should have gotten involved with those people. But still, she shouldn't take it out on him, he hadn't asked to be raped…The word alone made her shudder.

It didn't help that even before all this had happened, she'd been obviously attracted to another man. She wasn't even sure what she felt for Dane Rastenbaum, other than physical attraction, but the mere fact that she'd been attracted to another was enough to make her doubt whether or not she was ready to be engaged, to commit to someone completely.

The doubt, the feelings of disgust, shame, guilt, and latent anger were making her miserable, literally making her sick. She couldn't take it anymore; she felt she was drowning; she needed to come up for air, or die. To do that, she needed to get away from the source of her misery – and as much as she hated to admit it, the toxic stream of feelings were associated with one thing; and one thing only - Charlie.

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Agent Archibald Cooke stepped from the taxi in front the FBI headquarters with a sense of purpose, and an angry glint in his eyes. His decision to talk Dr. Eppes into going undercover had not only _not_ been appreciated; he was now fighting to retain his position in the DEA. The agency was attempting to dismiss him for lying to Eppes, but he'd hired a lawyer, and was fighting it. Of course, it would help to have the details of the case – he'd been shut out of it after Dr. Eppes had disappeared. Don Eppes had made certain of that. Don Eppes had also made sure to file a formal complaint against him, which was why he was in the position of having to defend himself, now.

It was an ongoing investigation, and his lawyer would have no hopes of getting the _Fantasy_ information until after the trials, and that would take months, more than likely, long after Cooke and his lawyer would be required to file their counter lawsuit. Cooke knew that his months of work on this case were essential in bringing the perpetrators to justice, and would play in his favor. He intended to use every advantage available to him. He needed the case files – particularly the information about the people who ran _Fantasy_.

At nine-thirty at night, there were still several people in the office, much to his chagrin, but at least Don Eppes and his team were gone. He couldn't afford to run into any of them. There was no chance of sneaking through drawers with agents there working late, so he approached one of them, flashing an old set of credentials. They were out of date and no longer valid, but that wouldn't be apparent in a quick glance. "Agent Cooke, from the office of the DEA," he said importantly to an obviously junior agent. "Don Eppes told me to find an agent working the _Fantasy_ case – I need some files."

The junior agent straightened, a bit proudly. "I'm working the case, sir. What do you need?"

"I need any files pertinent to the central case. I don't need all the sub-files related to charges against the party-goers – just anything that involves Markus or Elaina Topov, and J.T. Morrison."

She nodded pertly. "I'll get copies for you, sir."

"Thank you, uh -," he peered at her badge and smiled, "Agent Peters."

She returned, moments later, with a thick file. "This is the file on Morrison, sir. It's going to take a few minutes to make copies of the Topov file – you can look through this one while I make them, and then I'll copy this file for you."

Cooke nodded graciously. "Thank you." He carried the file over to a desk – Don Eppes' own desk it turned out – the irony brought a smile to his face as he sank into a chair. He began leafing through the file; he knew that Morrison had been charged with accessory to kidnapping, assault and rape, and had assumed that the man, like some of the other sick patrons, frequented the back room for those activities. A written report by Colby Granger caught his eye, and as he scanned down the page, the name of Dr. Eppes jumped out at him and he looked closer. Dear God – was this saying that the nameless victim in the newspapers had been … His mouth gaping, he turned the page, and encountered a photo – hastily snapped evidence, but there was no mistaking the nude body on the floor. He swallowed, and went back to the report, devouring every detail. Indeed, the professor had been sodomized multiple times – he was obviously the unnamed victim in the news articles, and Eppes had managed to keep his brother's name out of the press. Cooke smiled, maliciously. This was working out well. Perhaps he could exact a little revenge, after all.

**………………………………………….......................................................**

L.A. Times reporter Steve Sykes shot a quick look over his shoulder, and then sank into his chair. There weren't many in the office that time of night, but he smelled an exclusive story here, and he wanted to make sure that he, and he alone, ended up with the credit. His jaw dropped as the photo slipped out onto his lap, and dropped further as he glanced through the hastily scrawled note. Then he tucked everything back into the envelope and dialed his editor at home. "Bob – we got a 'stop-the-presses,' story, here," he said quietly into the phone. "A break on the victim in the Morrison case. You might want to get in here."

Forty minutes later, he was closeted with Bob in the editor's office, watching him anxiously.

Bob shook his head. "We can't use this."

Sykes' face fell, and he protested. "What do you mean? This is hot -,"

"I don't mean, we can't use the story," said Bob. "The story's great stuff. We just can't use this picture – it's way too graphic. Find a publicity shot of Dr. Eppes, and get it and your piece to me within the hour. Oh, and Sykes? Nice work."

**………………………………………….......................................................**

The Thursday morning newspaper went unread at the Craftsman – in fact, it hadn't even been picked up. Charlie's appointment with his therapist was early, and Alan had gone with him, as he had to the appointment on Tuesday, for support. Charlie was released to drive, and technically could have gone himself, if Alan trusted him to actually go. Getting him out the door was like pulling teeth, and Alan was sure if he was left to his own devices, he'd skip therapy, and simply say that he went. So, Alan accompanied him, and at 8:30 a.m., they had left the Craftsman for the 9:00 appointment.

It was now a little after 10:00, and Alan searched Charlie's face as he slid into the passenger seat. "How'd it go?"

Charlie shrugged, and looked away. "Okay," he grumbled. '_Pointless_,' he thought to himself. _An hour of listening to pointless platitudes_.

Alan shot him a glance, but didn't remark further as he put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot. "I need to stop at the grocer's," he said. "They have their turkeys on sale for Thanksgiving."

"Hmmm," Charlie barely responded, gazing out the passenger window.

Alan sighed, and tried again. "How big of one should I get?" he asked. "I'm sure Amita, Don and Robin will come…what about Larry and Megan? Wasn't there some talk of them coming?"

Charlie blinked and turned his head, dropping his gaze to his lap. "I…don't know," he admitted. "Now that they're moving back to L.A. this winter, they may not have the time." _Not only that_, he thought silently, _at this point I'd almost be surprised to see Amita there._

Alan slowed the vehicle and engaged his turn signal, waiting for an opportunity to pull into the market. He smiled. "That's such good news, isn't it, Charlie? I've missed them both. It will be nice to have Megan home again. Larry too, of course."

Charlie didn't answer verbally. He just shrugged uncomfortably, thinking again about his friends giving up their dream for someone as worthless as he was turning out to be.

Alan glanced at him quickly before he began to negotiate the car into the parking lot. "Well," he finally continued, "I think I'll get at least a 15 or 20-pounder. We'll invite Colby and David – and their dates, of course."

"Hmmm," Charlie said again, and Alan tromped on the brakes a little harder than necessary. Charlie jerked forward until his shoulder harness stopped him, and Alan found himself wondering if his son would have any kind of reaction to flying through the front windshield. He loved his youngest to death, but he hadn't seen his boy in quite a while, and he was growing a little impatient with this shell of a substitute. Alan longed for his old Charlie again, so intensely that he actually winced. He allowed a rare and naked need to enter his voice. "Please come inside with me."

Even cocooned in his own world of hurt, Charlie heard the tone, and he turned his head to really look at his father. The man had aged at least ten years since…since Charlie had started his ill-fated relationship with J.T. Morrison. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but Alan looked almost tired enough to go back to bed. And sad. There was an almost-palpable grief etched into the lines of his face. Charlie swallowed, and reached for the handle of the car door. "Okay," he agreed softly.

Alan smiled brightly, and the years slipped from his face. "Thank-you, son," he responded, suddenly winking at Charlie. "But you might want to unbuckle the seat belt, first."

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Alan had quickly decided that Thanksgiving would be a celebration, a gathering of assorted children and pseudo-children. He would get Don and Robin on board tonight; in the meantime, he filled the grocery cart with hope in the form of frozen turkey, the fixin's for Margaret's walnut dressing, yams, potatoes, olives, ingredients for three different pies – pretty much a Thanksgiving Feast for Kings. He fixated on the meal as a way to bring Charlie back into the love and safety of his family, as nothing else had so far been able to accomplish this.

Charlie trailed silently along throughout the store, offering no opinions, asking for nothing. He did look at a package of Oreo's® long enough for his father to notice, though – so Alan threw three packages in the cart. Finally, they joined a line at the checkout stands. Alan moved from foot-to-foot impatiently, but Charlie stood so still it was a little disconcerting. After checking the contents of his cart over for the third time, Alan turned and touched his son's arm lightly. "Charlie…" He jerked his hand back when Charlie started violently and stepped backwards into a display of candy bars, nearly tipping it over. Alan reached out quickly to steady the shelf unit. "Charlie," he said a little more quietly, deciding to pretend as if nothing had happened, "I forgot the tomatoes. I wanted to make a nice salad for dinner, and I used the last tomato yesterday."

Charlie blinked at him as if Alan was speaking some foreign language.

There were still two carts ahead of them in line, and one of them was even fuller than Alan's. He checked on their progress and then smiled encouragingly at his son. "Would you like to stay here with the cart? I should be back before it's our turn. Or, you'd probably be faster."

Charlie finally found his voice, although he seemed to be having trouble following the conversation. "Faster?"

Alan suppressed another sigh and nodded. "Could you go to produce and grab about four or five nice tomatoes?"

Comprehension finally dawned on Charlie's face. He looked a little nervously over his shoulder at the cavernous market, bustling with activity, then looked back at his father and nodded a little apprehensively. "Tomatoes," he repeated, and took his first few tentative steps away from the cart.

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Laura Ann Martin Staab Sanderson Zickefoose frowned when she squinted up at the price displayed over the cantaloupe. She was on a fixed income, and she had to be careful. None of her three miserly husbands, God rest their souls, had left her much of anything. Now here she was, 70-something, living the way she was living. She stopped at McDonald's® for coffee every morning because they offered a senior discount, and she could almost always snag a newspaper left there by an earlier customer. She needed the paper to study the ads; everything had to be purchased on sale. _Everything_.

She had come to this market today for the broccoli, but while she was there had been attracted to the firm, ripe, orange-flesh melons. Cantaloupe was a favorite. She had thumped a few, trying either to talk herself into or out of the purchase – she wasn't quite sure which – and stood in indecision before the tempting display. Finally, reality won out once again. She felt the coins in her pocket and knew that she did not have enough money for both the broccoli and the fruit. With one last longing look, she turned to shuffle toward the exit.

That was when she saw him. At first, as she watched him tentatively probe a few tomatoes, she thought he was someone she was supposed to know. His face looked so familiar. People were always accusing her of walking right past them, and her daughter was starting to make noises about Alzheimer's. She furrowed her brow in concentration and moved toward the tomatoes. Maybe if she got a better look at him…

She gasped aloud and almost dropped the broccoli when it came to her. By now she was only a few feet away from him, and he startled at the noise like a skittish horse. He turned wide and frightened eyes on her and his grip tightened on the tomato he was holding.

Laura began to cluck like a mother hen, shaking her head in sympathy. "You're such a brave young thing," she said. An expression of confusion diluted Charlie's fear, and she continued. "Oh, my lands, son, when I read what that awful man did to you, my heart just bled. Bled."

Charlie involuntarily gripped the tomato so tightly that thin rivulets of juice began to ooze through his fingers and drip onto the floor. "What?"

She nodded, smiling brightly. "I usually only look at the ads, but it was a nice picture of you that they used." She tilted her head a little, contemplating. "Looked just like you." She straightened her head again and started explaining to him as if he were slightly addled. "It was in the _Times_ this morning? How that movie man…" – her voice dropped to a stage whisper that carried throughout the produce department – "…_hurt_ you?" She started speaking normally again. "I just want to say how much I admire you, for saying you'll testify. So many people wouldn't, in your position."

Charlie released his grip on the tomato and it dropped with a splat to the floor. The old woman jumped back a step as the juice threatened to ruin her new Thrift Store sweater. "There's a story in the _Times_?" he repeated. "A picture of me?"

She nodded, regarding him now a little apprehensively. "Yessir. I think it said you're a doctor of some sort?"

"Oh, my God," Charlie breathed, and he spun around and sprinted for the front of the store.

Alan was just starting to pile his groceries on the conveyer belt when he saw a blur that looked disturbingly like Charlie sprinting for the automatic exit doors. "Clean-up in Produce," he heard over the loud speaker, and Alan craned his neck to watch his son cross the parking lot in a dead run, headed in the general direction of the car.

His heart first fell and then climbed toward his throat. What now? How on earth could Charlie get in trouble with a few tomatoes?

**………………………………………….......................................................**

Charlie reached a still slightly-trembling hand toward the steaming mug of hot tea, reconsidered, and dropped his hand to his lap again. "You said you have lots of evidence against him," he said quietly to Robin, glancing at her quickly and then refocusing on the tabletop. "You don't need my testimony."

Robin took a sip of her own tea and composed her thoughts. One minute she was sitting in her office, working on an unrelated case, and the next minute, Alan was on the phone begging her to come to the house and talk to Charlie. Robin was still trying to figure out what exactly was wrong when a clerk tapped on her partially open door and held up a copy of the _Times_. Even from her desk, Robin could recognize the photo of Charlie, and her eyes widened as she motioned the young man closer. By the time she had quickly read the article, left a message on Don's cell, and arrived at Charlie's house, the professor had calmed down somewhat from his full-blown panic attack at the grocery store. But he was still clearly fragile, and he was also very adamantly telling her he did not want to testify in Morrison's trial.

Carefully she set the mug down on the kitchen table. "Charlie, we should be able to convict Morrison on several counts – but some of our best evidence is testimony from Ramon, and other…others who had dealings with Morrison in the past. Your testimony will tie all the rest of it together, as far as the kidnapping, assault and sodomy charges."

Both Alan and Charlie winced. Charlie's hand, approaching his beverage again, jerked and he knocked over his mug. Hot tea pooled on the table, and he eventually jumped up, bumping into Alan who was already behind him with a tea towel. Robin was using napkins to sop up some of the liquid. Alan murmured into Charlie's ear. "Go upstairs and change your jeans, son, they're wet. Check for burns – it was hot tea."

Charlie raised a nervous hand to his head, jerking again when the sound of a car door slamming was heard. "That's Don," Robin noted, relieved, and that was all the motivation Charlie needed. The last thing he could stand right now was one more disappointed face, and he turned around and fled to his bedroom before his brother could get inside the house.

Don's face was grim when he joined his girlfriend and his father in the kitchen. "It was Cooke," he announced without preamble, not even bothering to sit down. He paced the kitchen, rubbing his hand over his head in exasperation. "The surveillance camera has a clear shot of him coming into the federal building at 9:30 last night, empty-handed. Half-an-hour later, another shot of him leaving – this time with two thick files. He blustered one of our swing shift junior agents – who may never make it past probationary status, now – into making copies for him of both the Morrison and Topov files. Stupid idiot even left him alone with the Morrison file, and now we're one evidence photo short."

"Oh, Lord," moaned Robin. "Charlie's talking about pulling his testimony, now."

Alan dropped the tea-laden towel into the sink and turned around slowly. "Maybe he _shouldn't_ testify," he interjected. Don stopped walking and sent an unbelieving glare across the expanse of the kitchen, and even Robin made a noise of protest. Alan shrugged helplessly. "Look what happened in the market, and the story has only been out a few hours. Charlie will never recover at this rate. I'll be lucky to convince him it's safe to leave the house again this year."

Don frowned, exchanged a glance with Robin, and then looked at his father. "I should have delivered some frontier justice to Morrison when I had a chance, out at the ranch."

Robin shook her head and Alan softly protested. "Donny…"

Don started pacing again and raised his voice. "He's _swine_, Dad, an animal! He's a great argument for birth control – he never should have been born!"

None of the three of them had noticed Charlie pushing tentatively at the swinging door of the kitchen, in perfect timing with Don's last speech, until he stood white-faced and silent in the doorway. Alan took a step toward him. "Charlie?"

Don's frustration was well out of check by now, and he shot his brother a dirty look. "You need to toughen up, Buddy – we need your testimony…"

Robin stood. "Don!" she commanded loudly. "We'll talk more about this after the hearing tomorrow." She turned and smiled gently at Charlie. "You know we're going to try for a change of venue," she reminded him. "Let me talk to my boss about a closed court, at least during your testimony. Don't make any decisions until we see what happens tomorrow, okay?"

Charlie nodded, and looked at his father, studiously avoiding Don's dark eyes.

Robin smiled at him but Don wasn't finished blustering. "It's all slipping through our fingers!" he protested hotly, looking almost accusingly at Robin. "Have you told him about the Topovs?"

Robin looked at him, clearly startled. "That information has not yet been released," she stuttered. "How do _you_ even know?"

Don snorted. "You did not just seriously ask me that." Robin flushed, continued to look at Don for a long moment and then turned back reluctantly to face Charlie, who was still standing just inside the door. "It seems that the Topovs had a rather high-ranking Soviet official for a contact. He was shipping Soviet citizens here illegally, for the Topovs to use in their operation. The Russian government is very embarrassed, and quite anxious to get their hands on the people who embarrassed them. There have been assurances that punishment with be swift, and certain, should our government agree to the extradition of the Topovs…" Her voice lowered, as did her eyes. She was now staring at Charlie's feet. "There will even be an exchange; some American citizens currently held in Russia for drug dealing."

Don snorted his displeasure. "It's even more important that we get Morrison for everything, now," he insisted, looking at his father rather than his brother. "_Everything_."

The four stood silently in the kitchen for a few moments. Surprisingly, Charlie was the first to break. "I'll think about it," he promised Robin softly. Then he glanced at Alan. "I… I'm going back upstairs," he said. "I think I might try to call 'Mita."

Alan smiled, a bit tremulously. "That's a good idea, son. Ask her to join us for dinner. We can all talk about this more later."

Charlie nodded again, backing out of the kitchen. Robin watched the door swing shut and then turned back to Don. "That reminds me. Do you still plan on being at the hearing tomorrow?"

"Of course," he answered shortly.

"I'm not sure we'll have to call you to the stand," she continued, "but don't forget the new rules regarding firearms at the courthouse. As an officer of the court, you'll be allowed to wear your service weapon, but leave the backup piece at home."

"That's where he should leave it anyway," Alan muttered, and Don rolled his eyes.

"I remember, I remember." Just outside the door, Charlie, who had stopped within hearing distance to search for his cell phone in the dining room, suddenly remembered that it was in the pocket of the wet jeans he had just removed, and made his way toward the stairs.

In the kitchen, Alan shot a hopeful glance in their direction as Don and Robin started to move toward the kitchen exit to the outside. "Can you both come back for dinner?"

Don paused, about to open the door for Robin. "I don't know, Dad. I'll have to see what happens this afternoon – I need to clear some things up if I want to be in court tomorrow. That kind of thing has a way of dragging on forever; could take all day."

Robin ignored his snark and smiled at Alan apologetically. "I'm sorry, Alan. I'm having a working dinner with Karen Ives from the D.A.'s office. We need to be ready to go in the morning."

Alan crossed to the door to hug Robin briefly and see her off. "Thank-you for coming," he said sincerely, then looked at Don. "Come if you can, Donny."

"Sure," Don answered, already a little embarrassed by his show of emotion. "I'll try, Dad. I'll try."

**………………………………………….......................................................**

End, Chapter 43


	44. Rejection

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 44: Rejection**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

The koi pond, as usual, offered mindless retreat. Charlie had grabbed a jacket; it was early evening, the sun was waning and the fall air was a bit cool, never mind the fact that he always seemed to be cold these days. He sat slumped on the bench, numbly watching the swirling forms in the water. As aimless as their movements seemed, the koi seemed so much more purposeful than any attempt at thought that he could muster. Millie Finch, his department head, had called that afternoon, and told him that now that she was fully aware of the situation, she couldn't possibly expect him back until the next semester. She told him to take the time to recover, and handle the legal issues. Charlie wasn't fooled; he could read between the lines. She didn't want him at Cal Sci; he was tainted…

In fact, he wondered dully if he would be allowed to teach in the spring. Even if he did go back, he had to face the entire campus – hell, everywhere he went, people would _know. _There was no more anonymity, no escape; even a change of venue offered little reprieve. Even if he could somehow forget, he would see it in their eyes. _Escape._ He closed his eyes. God, if only he could – go somewhere, get away from the pain, the humiliation, the sick gnawing feeling in his gut. He couldn't stand the way he felt inside; he couldn't even stand his own body anymore. _Sick, miserable, disgusting pig…_

Don was even more disgusted with him now, he was sure. He had made that perfectly clear earlier in the kitchen, calling him an animal who should never have been born…so much like the words that had come out of his mouth during their "fake" fight in the bullpen: _I wish you'd never been born._ Big, strong, masculine Don – a man's man – not only did he have to live with the fact that his brother had been sodomized, but also that said brother was gutless, too spineless to stand up in court to testify for himself. Instead, that brother hid himself in his room, or sequestered himself at the koi pond, waiting in pathetic misery for deliverance, not knowing when or if it would come.

He heard the car door slam, and turned his head. The light was on in the kitchen; he could see his father through the window, then Don appeared behind him. Here for dinner, no doubt. He turned his head back to stare at the fish. Food didn't interest him anymore, and a dinner with his frustrated brother interested him even less. They could eat without him.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don stared out the window, and absently rubbed the back of his head, worry, and not a little guilt in his eyes. "I was too rough on him earlier; you don't have to say it. How's he doing?"

Alan shrugged; the movement was filled with sadness and frustration. "Not good. Not only did he have to deal with the whole world finding out about his situation today, which he wasn't handling well to begin with, he had to deal with his brother pressuring him to testify."

"I said, I realize that!" Don ran a miserable hand over his face. "I came here to apologize. I was just so frustrated, so pissed off at Cooke… I let it come through when I talked to Charlie. I need to tell him that I wasn't upset with him, I was upset with Cooke, and with losing the Topovs…"

Alan sighed and nodded. "That would be good." His eyes strayed to the figure out at the pond. "He wasn't making much progress to begin with – and today – today will push him backwards. Plus, Millie called earlier; I'm not sure what she had to say, but he seemed even unhappier after the call – if that's even possible."

The doorbell sounded, and a puzzled frown appeared between Alan's brows. "I wonder who that is," he muttered, and pushed through the kitchen door "Stir that sauce on the stove, will you?"

Don obliged; the spaghetti sauce bubbled cheerfully in the pot, sending a homey comforting smell into the room that was at odds with the situation. He was wondering if anything would be normal again, when Alan pushed back through the door, looking slightly relieved. "Amita," he said. "She's here to talk to Charlie; I sent her around back. It's about time. She hasn't been here since last weekend, and I don't think they've been talking much. He said he couldn't reach her when he tried to call, earlier. Maybe this will make him feel better."

Don relinquished the spoon, and took his position back at the window again. He'd give them a few moments of privacy, and then join them, he decided. He and Amita could give Charlie a joint pep talk – it would be good for his brother to hear words of encouragement from both of them.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie caught movement out of the corner of his eye and assumed it was Don, until the figure drew closer. Then something familiar about the movement caught his attention, and he turned. "Amita," he said, in surprise, feeling his heart start to lift, just slightly. Amita, his angel, his salvation, the one good thing left in his life. "You got my voice mail."

He began to rise, but she raised a hand as she stopped in front of him. "No, Charlie, stay there." Her voice sounded odd, strained, shaky. "I'm not staying. I just – we need to talk."

He stared up at her, his bludgeoned senses struggling to read the look on her face. She was upset over what she'd read in the paper, he thought fleetingly, before she began to speak again.

"Charlie, I've been thinking a lot over the past few weeks," she continued. The words were coming faster now, tumbling over themselves. "I just don't think I want to be engaged right now."

Just like that, the bottom dropped out of what was left of his world. He felt a strange roaring in his ears, and he stared at her, stricken dumb. She had begun to cry, but was still talking; disjointed snatches of it came to him, through the roaring. "… not sure how I feel about us… you don't communicate – I didn't know anything about your undercover operation, you didn't tell me about your fight with Don…didn't ask me about being a foster parent to a troubled child…a lot of it's me, I know, but … too much pressure …anyway, I think it's best if we back off this, at least for now, until things get back to normal. I'd like you to have this back…," he stared at her hand, holding the ring out to him, the rest of her words lost. The diamond glittered in the setting sun, beautiful, timeless, from another world, a happier one. She was waiting for him to take it, and he dazedly put up his hand; she dropped the diamond into it, shuffling awkwardly, tears streaking down her face, waiting for him to say something.

He looked at the ring, then up at her, trying to remember how to speak again. "I'm sorry," was all he could manage, and she looked at him a moment, then nodded through her tears, and walked away. He looked back at the ring, stupidly. He was dry-eyed; too shocked and empty to cry; a dark weight settling inside him as the last shred of hope fled into the twilight. There was nothing left. He tilted his hand, watching with strange detachment as the ring rolled off his fingertips and splashed into the water at the edge of the koi pond. He could hear Don shouting at him from across the lawn, but he ignored him, and stood, heading past him for the house. There was nothing left.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don had emerged from the house and was crossing the lawn as he caught Amita's last words. He stopped in his tracks, frozen with disbelief, and as if in slow motion saw her hand Charlie the ring, heard Charlie's apology, his voice soft, dead-sounding. Then Amita was walking past him. He looked at her. "Amita-," he began helplessly, but she kept going, tears running down her face, her head down. He looked back at Charlie, just in time to see the ring roll from his hand into the koi pond, and the sight galvanized him into action. He ran toward him. "Charlie, no!"

Charlie had risen, and was walking past him toward the house, his face eerily expressionless. For a moment, Don spun back and forth wildly, between Charlie, Amita, and the koi pond, then ran for the pond. Charlie would regret losing that ring later; he was sure. He and Amita would patch things up, and he would want that ring – and Don had seen where it went in. He would retrieve it; stop Amita before she left, talk some sense into her…

He could see it lying there, thank God, near the edge, and he scared the koi, sending them darting in a frantic watery stampede to the other side of the pond as he lay down and plunged his arm in, sighing with relief as his fingers touched the ring. The water was cold and cleared his head a bit, and he jumped up, his fist curled around the ring, and sprinted toward the driveway.

He caught her at her car, the driver's side door open. "Amita, wait!" She paused, and he halted before her breathlessly, a pleading look on his face. "Amita, please, you can't do this – you'll kill him. You don't know how much he needs you right now."

She gave a short bitter laugh. "Needs me? He won't even talk to me." She looked up at him, despair in her eyes. "I can't do this, Don – I just can't." Then she got in and closed the door. He stared at her helplessly, still clutching the ring as she drove away, droplets falling from his sodden shirtsleeve like tears.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Alan had his back to the door, stirring the spaghetti sauce, and wasn't entirely sure who was coming in – maybe even all three of them. He gave the sauce a final stir and carefully set the spoon in its rest. Wiping his hands on his apron – a gift from Charlie and Amita last Hanukah season – he turned around with a smile on his face. "Hungry?"

His smile faltered. Charlie stood just inside the kitchen door, as it he had gotten that far and didn't quite know what to do next. Neither his brother nor his fiancée was with him. His face, which had been pale ever since his ordeal with Morrison, was now completely white. Bloodless. Alan thought he could hear Don shouting outside, and that was somehow even more terrifying. Nervously, he wiped his hands again. "Charlie?"

Shocked eyes met his across the kitchen. "She gave it back."

Alan heard Don shout again, this time making out Amita's name. Dreading the answer, he asked anyway. "Gave what back?"

"The ring," Charlie answered simply, moving almost serenely toward the swinging door. "The only one who seems to want me anymore is J.T."

Alan was almost overwhelmed by nausea. "Dear God," he protested. "Charlie, that's not true. You'll work this out, son! Charlie…"

His boy held up a hand as if to ward him off without so much as looking at his father. "I'm not very hungry," he said almost casually, reaching the door and starting to push into the house proper. "I'll see you later, Dad."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Without appetite, Don lethargically twirled the spaghetti on his fork. He stared morosely at his plate, avoiding his father's face. "God, it was awful. I thought the two of us could work together to encourage him a little. I gave them a few minutes alone and then headed out to apologize…I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I…I didn't know what to do first."

The ring sat on the table between them, like some misunderstood spice. _Please pass the salt. The pepper. The diamond. _Alan regarded it with an odd sense of detachment; almost distrust. "That's a very expensive ring," he noted. "It will be important someday, that you saved it from becoming koi food."

Don reached out and grabbed his beer, draining half the bottle in one swallow before he lowered it to the table again. This time he risked a glance in Alan's direction. "Maybe they'll work it out. Maybe Amita will wear it again someday."

Alan sighed, and pushed his own full plate way. "I'd like to think so. They used to be so happy; this can't be easy on her, either. The father in me wants to be angry with her; the timing of her decision, the reactions – and lack of reactions – I've seen from her since this nightmare began."

"I know what you mean," murmured Don.

Alan did not seem to hear him. "But it's also the father in me that understands how much he loves her…how much he needs her." Don nodded silently, indicating that he agreed with that sentiment as well.

The eldest Eppes expelled another deep breath as he stood and started clearing the table. "At least he didn't lock himself in his room; the door was open, and he let me stand there and talk to him for a while. I encouraged him to call Larry, and Megan. I just hope all of these 'experts' know what they're talking about, telling me to wait on his physical cues." He grinned at Don ruefully. "The muscles in my arms are starting to ache; it takes so much effort to keep them to myself, sometimes."

Don had to agree one more time. "Right back atcha," he said mournfully.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Arrangements took almost all night.

One reason it took so long was that Charlie tried to write the note legibly, in longhand. Somehow, it just didn't seem right to do it on the computer. It took some time to decide how many notes to write, as well. In the end, he decided that he still knew one thing: Don was an honorable man. Whether or not he loved Charlie, he would do the responsible thing. He would deliver all the messages. Charlie believed that, and settled on just one note.

When his fingers cramped, he would stop for a while, lean back in his desk chair, and remember snatches of conversations, including some he wasn't even really cognizant of hearing.

_I wish you'd never been born._

_Sick, miserable, disgusting pig._

_Animal. Never should have been born._

_Don't come back to Cal Sci._

_Too much pressure…not normal…._

_Leave your ankle gun at home._

Charlie pieced it all together, a puzzle at least as intricate as and far more important than any algorithm he had ever designed. He spent the night writing, remembering, and making plans.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

.

End, Chapter 44


	45. Reach Out and Touch Someone

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 45: Reach Out and Touch Someone**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

J.T. Morrison had been trying to nap when he got the call. By the end of the conversation, he was sitting up on the edge of the bed, all-but begging Trevor not to quit the film. When _Fantasy_ was brought down, J.T. had three films in the works, including the one he had just opted from the novelist in San Francisco. As soon as his picture hit the papers, he lost his financial backing on that one and had to pull out of the contract. His other projects were much further along. One was slated to be filmed in Canada -- that bitch with the US Attorney's office had pulled some strings -- as well as Morrison's passport and other papers -- and Canadian officials had informed him that he was no longer welcome in their country. Until that wrench was thrown into the works, his backers had been hanging on. Once they were informed that he had to start all over with the project, however, they were gone. _Midnight Sin, _the sequel to_ Wild Tomorrow,_ was all he had left, and it was due to start filming on a Hollywood sound stage next month. Trevor Miles, the ungrateful son of a bitch, had just called to inform him that the cast had conducted a clandestine meeting. While some of the actors wanted out simply because bad publicity was now a given, in the end it was the argument made by Trevor himself that convinced them all to quit en masse. Some of the actors would miss out on other jobs, he had pointed out, and there was no guarantee that this movie would ever be finished. Morrison's trial could start in the middle of filming and derail everything. Should J.T. be found guilty, the movie would never recover; and neither would the career of any actor connected to Morrison.

In short, signed contracts or not, the entire cast had voted to walk -- right down to the last extra. If J.T. tried to cause any trouble for any of them, his own former attorney, Martin Van Clefe, would represent the actors. No amount of blustering threats had any effect on Miles. Before he hung up on J.T., Morrison had actually begun to beg.

When he heard Trevor disconnect, J.T. bellowed in pain and slammed his cell down on the bedside table. His hand bumped his new copy of Charlie's book -- the police had taken the first one, so he had ordered a replacement from Amazon®; it was delivered just a few days later. He looked down now at Charlie's boyish grin, his beautiful dark eyes, the unbelievably silky curls...and the familiar pain that spiked in his heart whenever he thought of Eppes turned to murderous rage. He snatched up the book and hurled it across the bedroom. His fault. All of it, Charlie's fault.

His staff had left him -- even Ramon had left voluntarily, before Morrison could have his new attorney try to obtain permission for them both to stay at the estate while under house arrest, awaiting their trials. It had been almost 20 years since J.T. had been expected to prepare his own meals, do his own laundry, clean his own toilets...he hated it. All of it. He had to have groceries delivered.

He was allowed visitors, and they could have brought him things -- but he had become a pariah among pariahs. Starlets and hangers-on who would have killed for an invitation to one of his parties a few months ago now would not even take his calls. Oh, some had stuck around for a while -- although their visits were brief, and far too much time passed between them. Others, like Mirah, were under investigation themselves, and keeping as far away from him as they could.

And the more information that the press managed to dig up about his involvement in _Fantasy_, the worse it got. Only his attorney had come by since the _Times_ leaked the information that Dr. Eppes was his victim.

He bellowed in misunderstood frustration once more, and leapt to his feet. He began to pace the master suite, pausing when he reached the doorway that led to the walk-in closet. Not for the first time, he thought about it; the wall safe, hidden behind a false panel in the wall behind a row of slacks and pressed jeans. The police had not found it, during their search -- he had checked right away when he was allowed back into his own home. Even Ramon had not known about this safe. A larger one was located in the study, and had indeed been compromised. When authorities found -- or were told of -- it, they probably didn't bother to look for another.

Morrison had been relieved to find that the bedroom safe was...safe. Inside was a few thousand in cash; a small amount of cocaine that he had finished off during his first week of house arrest; some jewelry; his now-worthless passport...and an unregistered .38 special and some ammunition. The gun had been a gift from a particularly thrilling back-alley conquest J.T. had picked up almost 15 years before. The idiot had stupidly gotten involved in a bar fight that resulted in his deportation, when authorities found out that he was an illegal from Mexico, so their relationship had been brief. J.T. could not now remember the man's name.

But he remembered the gun.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie presented himself downstairs before eight, fully clothed and freshly showered. When Alan had heard the water running in the bathroom he had been surprised – and then had hurried downstairs to start the coffee.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to read the paper and drink a cup, when Charlie appeared. Determined to make another stab at normal, Alan looked up and smiled. "Good morning, son! You're up early."

He was glad he was already sitting when Charlie actually smiled shyly in return; briefly, but Alan saw it. Charlie was carrying his backpack and now he let it drop to the floor beside the swinging door before he crossed to the refrigerator. "Morning, Dad. Do we have any orange juice?"

Alan nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee. "I think so," he finally managed. He eyed the backpack. "Going somewhere?"

Charlie shrugged, filled a glass with orange juice and brought it to the table. "I called Dr. Star's after-hours number, and was able to get an extra session. He can see me at 10:30 this morning."

Alan blinked. "Charlie…that's…that's a good idea, son. I'll be happy to drive you."

Charlie looked into the juice glass, as if searching for floating bodies, before bringing it to his lips. He took a healthy swallow and then returned it to the table before he looked back at Alan. "You don't have to do that, Dad. I can drive myself." He indicated his backpack with a shrug of his shoulder. "I was cleaning my room a little last night…couldn't sleep…I found a few things that I should return to people. I thought I could do that while I was out."

Alan was just this side of flabbergasted. "Excuse me?"

Charlie flashed another small smile, and Alan automatically smiled in return. "There's a book I should mail back to Larry," he started. "He left it here the weekend he…visited…and I know he uses it in one of his classes, so I probably shouldn't wait until he moves back to get that to him. And another book, from the UCLA science library…I may have a fine on that one." He smiled again. "I even found a few things that belong to Don. I may take those by his apartment."

Alan folded the newspaper and laid it aside, leaning back a little in his chair. Was it too much to ask? Maybe this latest crisis with Amita had forced Charlie out of his cave, somehow. He scratched his chin. "You should probably have a good breakfast if you intend to do all that," he said. And then he took a leap of faith. "I may go ahead and work my regular volunteer slot at the soup kitchen, then. Make sure you take our extra set of keys to Don's apartment."

Charlie rewarded him with a genuine smile the likes of which Alan hadn't seen in months. "You should, Dad," he encouraged. He started to stand. "I'm hungry. I've been thinking of omelets and hash browns all night. Maybe some toast, too. And do we have any croissants?"

Alan jumped up so fast the chair almost tipped over. "Sit, sit," he admonished. "I'll make enough for both of us. It will be my pleasure. Finish your orange juice!" He started humming happily, banging pans and cupboard doors. This was wonderful. Charlie was back.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

At first, J.T.'s underlying need was one of attention. He phoned several former friends and acquaintances, lying on his bed with Charlie's book on one side of him, and the .38 on the other.

In the beginning, as assorted house servants and assistants insisted their employers weren't home, he got angry. What were the odds that not one of his former contacts was at home? That thought led to an unsolicited memory – a statistical discussion with Charlie at the baseball game they had attended together – and his heart began to ache. Charlie could tell him the odds – if he had not allowed him to get away,

Morrison had been drinking more and more since his house arrest had begun. Charlie would be shocked at the state of his wine cellar now. He tried to keep several bottles in the master suite – but he emptied them faster than he could stock the small bar in the corner. Just yesterday he had made two trips to the wine cellar with a canvas tote bag he had found in the kitchen. He could carry four bottles in the bag, so he had a total of eight in his suite by late yesterday afternoon. By the time he got the gun out of his safe that morning, he was already down to five.

In the two hours he had been trying to reach someone – anyone – even his attorney was in court, at a hearing regarding his own case, no less, and the secretary didn't have time to talk – J.T. had almost finished a fourth bottle. His palate was long-since dulled; numbed by alcohol. The thousand-dollar wines were nothing by watery Kool-Aid® to him at this point. Now, he took another long swallow and allowed his fingers to depress the numbers they sought out on their own. He probably wouldn't answer, either; J.T.'s ID would display. Hell, by now he probably had a new number. But Morrison had to try. He had to.

"_What do you want?"_

J.T. barely recognized Charlie's voice when his ex-lover actually took his call. The young man sounded worse than he did when his brother had beaten him up in front of everyone in the F.B.I. office. So despondent. Morrison could imagine his sad face, and grew immediately hard. "I love you," he whispered.

Charlie only breathed in response, and the sound nearly sent J.T. over the edge. In fact, if there had not been so much alcohol diluting his responses, it probably would have. "I've missed you so," he continued. "I was good to you. You have to admit, Charlie, I was very good to you."

"_Don't call me again. I'm turning off my phone."_

Morrison moaned when Charlie did just that, and as the hand holding the cell sunk to the bed beside him, he understood finally that he had thrown much away in his lifetime. The anonymous gun-owner, for instance, a man he could not even remember clearly now. Ramon, who was faithful to him for years.

Dear, loyal Ramon.

Ramon would never let him down, of that J.T. was certain.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

After he got to Don's apartment at around ten a.m., Charlie had experienced some last-minute hesitation. There had never been any therapy appointment or errands, of course, but his father had been so happy. While Charlie had eaten a big breakfast, Alan had barely eaten at all. He had not seemed able to take his eyes off his son. It was difficult to chew and smile at the same time with any degree of politeness, and Alan Eppes came down solidly on the side of smiling that morning.

So after Charlie had let himself into Don's apartment, he had sat in the silent living room and considered his options one last time.

Then his phone rang.

When he took the cell out of the backpack beside him and flipped it open, Charlie saw J.T.'s name on the display. He glanced nervously toward the door – he thought Don was at a hearing for Morrison today – and in his confusion spoke into the phone. _"_What do you want?"

"_I love you,"_ J.T. had responded, and when Charlie was silent, his tormenter had continued. "_I've missed you so. I was good to you. You have to admit, Charlie, I was very good to you_."

Charlie had heard enough to know that he'd made the right decision. "Don't call me again," he interrupted."I'm turning off my phone."He immediately did so, and returned the cell with great care to his backpack.

This was all the proof he needed, he thought, standing. In his darkest hour, his hour of indecision, only J.T. had understood him well enough to reach out and touch him. Amita had left him. Don despised him. His father had only been happy to get his own life back. None of them had shown the least amount of interest during the last few weeks in touching him, in loving him…not since J.T. had ruined him. If this was all that remained for him, then it was past time for Charlie to go.

Slowly, he walked back to Don's bedroom. He placed the backpack on the king-size bed and began to withdraw the items. When one hand was full, he turned to the armoire and opened it. Just as he knew it would be, Don's back-up gun, a .38 special, lay nestled in a stack of neatly folded white t-shirts. Charlie knew without looking that it was loaded, but he set down his snow-globe and letter, and checked anyway. Then he turned back to the bed. He placed the loaded gun in his bag, and withdrew a baseball, Amita's ring, and some more papers. Finally, he turned one last time to the armoire, and began to arrange a shrine of sorts on top of the t-shirts.

First he set the flat papers on the clothes. Then, in a semi-circle above the papers, Charlie placed the snow-globe, the ring, and the baseball. He opened the folded letter, and read it one last time, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything:

_Dear Don,_

_I hope you don't mind the endearment. I know what you think of me, but I still think of you this way. I still wish that you loved me._

_I'm leaving just a few things, and some instructions. I know that you care about Dad, and for his sake, you will take care of these things. I have left a list of what you will have to know as the executor of my estate: the location of my important papers, my trust, the deed to the house – things like that. When everything is settled, ownership of the house will revert to Dad. The trust will take care of expenses until that time._

_When I decided on the terms of my trust last year, I left a percentage of the estate to you. I planned to update the trust after Amita and I were married. I know now that you would probably rather die destitute, but it's there, anyway. You can give it to Dad, or to an F.B.I.-endorsed charity. Do whatever you want._

_I also ask that you take care of these items for me – the three most treasured things I own. Mom bought this snow-globe the year we took a family vacation to Canada; I think I was six or seven. She always kept it on her dresser, and when she passed Dad boxed it up with all of her other things to store in the garage. Before the charity truck came, I looked through a few boxes; I took this out, intending to wait a few years and then see if Dad wanted it back. I thought when it hurt less to remember her, he might appreciate it._

_Please give Amita's ring back to her. She can sell it if she wants, but it was always her ring. I chose it for her, and it represents the love I thought we had._

_Finally, this is the foul ball you caught at a Dodgers' game when you were 14. That was the same year I had an emergency appendectomy, and you gave me the ball while I was still in the hospital. I took this ball to Princeton, to MIT, to Oxford and brought it back to L.A. It meant a lot to me. I hope you can remember the day you caught it, and not so much the years that I held it for you._

_I'm sorry I didn't listen to you about J.T. Morrison – and probably a lot of other things, over the years. I'm sorry I turned out to be such a disappointment to everyone._

_Please forgive me._

_Charlie_

The letter was several pages long, and Charlie was crying by the time he finished re-reading it. A fat tear splashed onto the paper as he carefully refolded the last things he would ever say to anyone, and gently laid it on top of the other papers.

He sniffed, brushed the back of his hand across his face, and closed the armoire. He checked the backpack again to make sure the gun was inside, and then he marched resolutely out the door.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

J.T. was gratified when Ramon took his call. He had drained the bottle of wine by then, and the empty lay like a dead soldier on the floor. He had moved the gun to his belly. Still flat on his back, he held his phone with one hand and caressed the cold steel with the other.

"Ramon, _mi amigo_. I'm calling to apologize. I treated you badly, for many years."

Ramon yawned into the phone. "You sound drunk. My attorney will not be pleased when I tell him you initiated contact."

Morrison slurred his words a little. "I don't care," he said petulantly. "My life is over. I threw it away…on….on…_nothing_, when all along perfection was standing right in front of me."

Ramon laughed. "How much _have_ you had to drink, _El Capitan_?"

J.T. sulked. "I don't want to live anymore, Ramon. My attorney says that I'm my own worst enemy – I have a motion in court today, and he wouldn't even let me go and speak for myself! My friends have all disappeared. My career is over."

Ramon clucked, bored. "Of what concern is this to me?"

Morrison hefted the .38. "I have a gun. The police didn't find everything, you know."

Ramon seemed unimpressed. "Again, I ask. Of what concern is that to me?"

J.T. permitted himself to beg, unknowingly quoting lines from his most successful film thus far, _Wild Tomorrow_: "Tell me that you loved me once," he whispered. "Even if it was only for a moment. Tell me."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie went to his favorite place in L.A.

It was a small park, nearly 25 miles from the house, and it was the first place he had ever seen koi. He had been fascinated and attracted to them from the start. To Little Charlie, just discovering the patterns of life, the koi had seemed like living numbers.

He had begged his father to bring him here almost every weekend. Either that, or build a koi pond of their own, so that Charlie could study the fish to his heart's content. Eventually, Alan had decided that building and stocking the pond would be less of a hassle than ferrying his son across town to the park every week while simultaneously trying to stay on top of Don's baseball schedule, and Charlie got his koi pond at home.

Charlie was a little surprised now to see how small and ill-stocked the pond was. Had it always been that way? The one at home was infinitely nicer…but Charlie could not go there for this. Not for this.

School was still in session, it was late fall, and the tiny park was virtually deserted as Charlie sat on the stone bench and contemplated the koi, balancing the backpack in his lap. A young mother showed the 'fishies' to her toddler on the other side of the pond; they were the only other patrons in the park. The woman seemed nervous; apparently, Charlie's unease radiated across the rippling water. It didn't take too many glances in her direction before she picked up her child and left, hurrying from the park.

Once he was alone, Charlie reached into the pack, and withdrew the .38.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don pushed open the door of his apartment at 2 p.m. The hearing had not contained any surprises, per se -- but he was always surprised how slowly the wheels of justice turned. Stand for this. Wait for that. Confer with the other guy. His testimony had not been required; Agent Leach had been chosen to present the law enforcement point-of-view, since he had been pursuing _Fantasy_ longer. He had done a fine job on the stand, and the judge had made a half a decision on the spot: the change of venue would be granted the prosecution for the trial of one J.T. Morrison. Exactly where Morrison would be tried was yet to be determined.

Don had taken Robin to lunch, and then had gone on to the office. It was no good, though -- he felt more than naked, without his back-up piece. It was beyond ridiculous, he knew -- his service weapon was more than adequate to get him through the day. When it came right down to it, he had only needed a back-up gun once, and he was working fugitive recovery back then. After an hour, though, it seemed like he couldn't think of anything else. Robertson's team was waiting for a warrant; if it came through that afternoon, Don, Colby and David would serve as back-up in the field during a weapons bust. Don found himself hoping that the warrant wasn't issued; he didn't want to go into the field naked. When he realized what he was thinking, Don made two decisions. Short term, he would go home for his .38. Long term, he would discuss this very thoroughly with Bradford very soon.

He shoved his keys into the front pocket of his jeans and walked briskly toward his bedroom. Not bothering to turn on the light, Don crossed to the armoire and yanked open the door. He stood in stunned silence for a moment. It crossed his mind that he shouldn't touch anything, should call in forensics. Then he recognized Charlie's scrawl on the folded paper, as well as Amita's ring. And...was that his baseball?

Don reached into the abyss, and picked up the folded letter with his name on the outside.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Burnished blue steel. Cold at first, then unbearably hot. Packed powder and primer in a spherical metallic cartridge, travelling at a point-blank velocity of 1150 fps with a trajectory of 30 degrees.

He opened his mouth,

inserted the weapon,

and squeezed the trigger.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 45


	46. Resurrection

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 46: Resurrection**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don had just fired up the SUV when Alan answered the phone. With no time to worry about anything other than Charlie, the agent barked frantically into the cell before his father even finished his greeting. "Dad, thank God! Is Charlie there?"

Alan chuckled lightly. "Good afternoon to you too, son. How did it go in court?"

Don slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He was ready to go, but he had no idea where he was going. He just knew that he had to get there fast. "Dad! Charlie! Please!"

Alan's voice took on a worried tone. "I don't know if he's here; I'm just walking in the front door myself. Is everything all right?"

Don groaned. "You left Charlie alone?"

His elder adopted an attitude of affront. "Charlie was remarkably composed, this morning! He came down early and asked for a hearty breakfast, and _on his own_ he set up an extra appointment with Dr. Star! He even cleaned his room, and was going to run some errands. I thought it was important that I encourage his independence and positive attitude, so I went down to the soup kitchen and Charlie took his Prius. What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Dad, please…" Don tensed when he heard his father sigh and start calling Charlie's name.

Alan's breathing changed as he started up the stairs. "You know, now that I mention it, the Prius wasn't in the driveway. He's probably not here, although I didn't really expect him to be gone this long. Charlie? Son?" Don drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; then clutched it like a life raft at his father's barely heard, "That's strange…,"

Don sat up straighter. "What? Dad? What?"

Alan sounded truly confused. "Charlie said that he couldn't sleep last night and cleaned his room. It looks like a cyclone hit; totally trashed. Worse than usual."

Don tried to make himself calm down and speak slowly, but found that he could not. "Cross over to his window and look out by the koi pond. Is he sitting there?" he asked in a rush.

A few seconds passed before Alan answered. "No, Donny. Listen, you're freaking me out a little. What happened? Do you not want Charlie to hear something about the hearing on the news?"

Don interrupted. "Dad – where would he go? Where's Charlie's favorite place around here? Is there a beach, or somewhere he used to hike with Larry?"

Alan thought out loud. "I was about to say 'Cal Sci', but I doubt he'd go there after Amita…" His voice perked up. "Unless…he was in such a good mood this morning, perhaps he went to try to talk to her about the engagement!"

Don winced. "No," he said shortly. "He didn't. Dad, this is important: If Charlie couldn't go to the koi pond, where would he go to think?"

Alan answered right away. "Well, the koi pond, of course."

"You're not listening," Don started in exasperation, but Alan continued unperturbed. "I'm not even sure it's still there. Remember that small park over in North L.A.? Charlie used to make me take him there all the time – we'd stop after every one of your practices on Saturday afternoons, until I finally agreed to build a koi pond at home. He truly loved those fish. You know how he's named the ones here at home? He named all the ones in the park pond, first."

In a flash, Don remembered – Anderson Park. It was very small, without even a playground, and he had always hated having to stop there. He shifted the Suburban into gear. "Look, Dad, Charlie's in trouble."

"What?" More confusion, with a healthy dose of fear. "How do you know?"

Don shook his head even though his father could not see him. "Later. I tried to call his cell; voice mail. Start calling him, Dad. If he answers, tell him you love him, or that you need him, or that the house is on fire and you've fallen and can't get up. Tell him anything you have to. Just get him to come home – or call me, and I'll pick him up."

Alan was sufficiently worried now to sink down onto the edge of Charlie's bed. "What is God's name is wrong, Don?"

_Everything_, Don thought. "Maybe nothing," he answered. "I'm probably over-reacting. I'm sure we'll all think this is funny, later."

Alan clutched his cell more tightly. "I'm not laughing, son."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Edgar Trainor, Esquire, J.T.'s new attorney, had tried repeatedly to call his client both from the courthouse, and later, from his office. Finally, he had left for home a tad early, figuring he'd drop by Morrison's estate on the way. He needed to inform his client of the results of the hearing.

J.T. had been leaving the access gate unsecured since his house arrest – and the departure of all his employees – so Trainor had just driven on in, stopping as near the front entrance as possible. Now, he pushed the doorbell for the fourth time, and began pounding on the teakwood door with his fist. Surely, Morrison hadn't left the premises – LAPD would have notified him right away if there had been any indication that the ankle bracelet had been tampered with, or removed.

Trainor pounded harder, and even kicked the expensive door a few times. Then he glanced at his watch, and started searching the obvious places. Nothing over the door, on the lintel, but sure enough, under the leather welcome mat embossed with J.T.'s raised initials, Trainor found a spare key. He picked it up, and used it to unlock the front door.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie watched the koi until he could identify all the patterns in their seemingly aimless movements. The pond at Anderson Park was stocked and maintained as a community service by a Los Angeles-based koi club, and the members tended to donate less-than-perfect specimens. The school was dominated by older fish, or fish that had survived some injury, and were predictably lazy in their movements. The stock in the koi pond at the Craftsman held his interest for a much longer period of time; but then, he was distracted a tad by the gun in his hand.

Charlie had the weapon halfway to the base of his own skull when a Goshiki broke away from the anticipated flow of the group and suddenly crashed upwards through the surface of the water in such an impressive leap that Charlie thought for a moment the fish had been snared by an invisible fisherman. His arm froze where it was and his eyes widened as he regarded the colorful koi. Its white base glinted in the afternoon sun through a gray net pattern, and distinctive bright red Picasso-like splashes of red undulated and twisted in midair before the fish fell into the water again. Only the koi upon which the Goshiki landed had any real reaction, raising its head and sputtering at the waterline for a moment before submerging and rejoining the school, which had continued on its chosen path toward the other side of the small pond as if nothing had happened. The Goshiki leapt again, its glistening body moving in the opposite direction from its mates, toward Charlie's side of the pond. This time when it came down it had advanced a few feet, past the end of the koi congo-line, and belly-flopped with a splash that actually sent droplets of water onto the ground at Charlie's feet. Without a conscious decision, Charlie lowered the gun.

The Goshiki was close enough now that Charlie could see a film growing over one eye, and a nasty scar leading from that eye up to its back until it disappeared into one of the red splotches of color. At once, Charlie understood that this fish had been injured -- perhaps by pond mates, perhaps by a diving bird or an adventurous cat -- and "retired" to the Anderson Park pond. The blind eye explained its very presence, for Charlie had paid over one thousand dollars for a similar koi in his pond. The fish began to rotate in a tight circle at the edge of the pond, as if it were chasing its tail -- or performing for its lone visitor. Then, as suddenly as its antics had begun, they stopped, and the Goshiki turned to glide effortlessly back into place in its group.

Charlie let his fingers worry the brushed metal of the .38 while he sat, and considered the koi. The Goshiki was a star in any pond, much like he himself had always been. Things were expected of the fish, as they were of him; a certain unmatched radiance. When it had been tainted, its world had changed. The Goshiki had found himself in unfamiliar waters, as had Charlie. Yet, if fish were capable of choosing joy, this Goshiki had. It refused to let its spirit be broken, its individuality destroyed. It leapt towards the sun in frenzied bounds of fervor and faith. It was scarred, and imperfect; and faced with the choices of survivorship and victimization, it picked the former.

Charlie let go of the gun, leaving it lying beside him on the bench, and made the same choice.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don managed to park the SUV at the curb directly behind Charlie's Prius, and when a glance in his rear-view mirror revealed a long line of cars coming his way, he climbed over the center console and exited from the passenger side of the vehicle, on the park side. He jogged for the center of the small park, and within moments Charlie was in sight. Don was approaching him from the rear, and his knees went weak when he realized that his brother was sitting up under his own power. Then he drew close enough to spy the gun on the bench at Charlie's side, and he skidded to a halt, his legs refusing continued cooperation. "Charlie," he called, surprised when the volume was closer to a whisper than a shout, "please, don't!"

Charlie did not so much hear his brother as sense a presence behind him. He hastily stood and whirled to face whomever was after him now. When he confronted Don, it was with a clear expression of fear on his face – but when he truly recognized his brother, fear turned to disappointment, and embarrassment. His head dropped towards his chest a little. "I didn't think you'd find me."

Don had heard enough stories during his law enforcement career to be cautious; Charlie was still closer to the gun than he was. He took one tentative step. "I'm sorry," he croaked. "Let me fix things."

Charlie's head lifted and he frowned. "What?" Then he bent slightly and reached down to pick up the gun, intending to return it to his brother.

Don threw caution to the wind. "Charlie! No!" he shouted. He barreled toward his baby brother in a dead run, launching himself over the small cement bench and tackling the smaller man in a desperate attempt to knock the gun out of his hand.

He succeeded at his mission – and also in catapulting them both into the koi pond. The fish, which were still on the other side, bruised their noses trying to swim right through the rock to escape the wild duo. Charlie, completely submerged under Don, was kicking for the surface and pushing at the great weight on top of him. Don, briefly stunned by the impact, finally managed to straddle Charlie with his knees and reach under the water – he dragged Charlie into a sitting position with a fistful of shirt in one hand and a handful of wet curls in the other.

Charlie sputtered, coughed, and inhaled great lungfuls of air, his own hands automatically twisting in Don's sodden polo. "What the…" – he stopped, gasping and coughing again – "the hell are you trying to do?" he demanded. "_Kill me?_"

Don laughed wildly, removing his hand from Charlie's hair but letting it join his other in holding onto his shirt. "God," he shuddered. "I was trying to get the gun, so you didn't kill yourself!"

Charlie blinked. He looked at Don, and then past his shoulder to see the gun lying on the asphalt near the edge of the pond. "Shit, Don," he coughed, "I was just trying to give it back to you. I already talked myself out of it."

At first Don didn't understand him. He tightened his grip on his little brother. "Look, I know I've done everything wrong since you lost your clearance, but I never wanted you to think…" Suddenly, Charlie's words took purchase in his scrambled brain and his brow furrowed. "What?"

Charlie pushed at him. "You heard me. Get off."

Don gaped, stunned – and then he took his hands out of Charlie's shirt, and used them both to pull his brother to him. He embraced him tightly, against everyone's advice, and couldn't keep the tears from his voice. "God, Charlie, you scared the shit out of me. I love you. I love you. Buddy, I swear I'll do everything I can to make this better for you." His embrace tightened. "God, Charlie…"

Charlie sat in the koi pond, stiff with apprehension and fear; it seemed so long since he had felt human contact generated by kindness, it felt odd, alien at first.

Then, if only for a moment, he relaxed into his brother's love.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Gary Walker called Robin from the scene. "Counselor," he drawled. "Thought you'd want to know. Morrison's attorney found his client dead at his estate late this afternoon. Looks like suicide to me – the coroner agrees, pending the autopsy." Robin was silent for so long that Walker spoke again. "Ms. Brooks? You there?"

"Yes, yes," she finally sighed. "I heard you, Lieutenant Walker. I was just trying to make myself care."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 46


	47. The Ball's In Your Court

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 47: The Ball's in Your Court**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Alan stared at Don, standing sodden in the kitchen. His sons had come in moments before, drenched to the skin, and Charlie had shot him a sheepish glance and made immediately for the stairs, muttering something about a shower. The sound of water running through the pipes sang over their heads. "Now tell me what happened," Alan demanded.

Don hesitated, but only for a moment. He hated to worry his father now that it was all over, but Alan had a right to know. He pulled a soggy folded piece of paper carefully from his rear pocket and handed it to Alan. "I came home to today to find this in my apartment, and my backup piece gone."

Alan unfolded it, gingerly, and squinted slightly at the words, the writing made spidery by the damp translucent paper. As he read, his breath caught, and he grew so pale that Don thought he was going to keel over. He didn't, but he did shuffle for a chair, and sank into it on shaking legs, as he looked up at Don. "You stopped him?"

Don's face twisted ruefully, "Yeah – I body-tackled him into the pond, although it turned out I didn't need to. He was sitting there with the gun – he tried to hand it to me but I thought – well, anyway, he told me he had changed his mind."

Alan glanced toward the ceiling. "Maybe he's not taking a shower," he said suddenly, in a panicked voice. He rose, starting toward the door. "Maybe we should check on him."

Don stopped him, with a hand on his arm. "Dad – no – let him be. He's okay. He sounded more normal sitting there talking to me in the koi pond than he has in two weeks."

Alan sighed; then ran a trembling hand over his face. "I don't know – he sounded normal to me this morning, too." He snorted; a sad frustrated sound. "I actually thought he was much improved." He backed up and sat down again in the chair with a weary thump. "I don't know how to help him anymore."

"He's not going to get over this overnight," Don said softly. "None of us are. We just need to let him work his way through it." He grew pensive for a moment. "He let me hug him. I know they said to let him initiate contact, but he seemed okay with it."

Alan scowled. "I'm beginning to think less and less of that shrink they referred him to. Anyone who puts a moratorium on hugs can't be right upstairs."

Don looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should call Megan – get her opinion. Maybe he should be seeing someone different."

The water had shut off, and Alan could hear footsteps on the stairs. He rose immediately and pushed out through the kitchen door, to see Charlie, dressed in a clean T-shirt and sweatpants, still toweling his curls, coming down the steps. He paused as he reached the bottom, standing there uncertainly as Alan strode toward him and engulfed him in a powerful embrace. "Don't you ever to do that to me, Charlie," Alan whispered fiercely in his son's ear. "Don't you _ever_."

For the second time that day, Charlie found himself surrounded by love, and this time, he hugged back. "I won't Dad," he murmured, his heart full. "I won't. I promise."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Robin arrived just as Don was making his own entrance, descending the stairs with his hair spiky and still damp, and a drop of moisture just there, at the point where his jaw met his neck. It made her want to lick it off, but instead, she primly ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip and faced Alan and Charlie, as Don approached, a question in his eyes. "Charlie, I have some news for you," she said, simply. "J.T. Morrison is dead."

Charlie's eyes widened and he turned white, but he said nothing – quite possibly because he couldn't. She paused for a moment with an uncertain glance at Don; then continued. "He was found in his study with a gun. We're not sure where it came from; it was a street piece with the serial number removed. It was an apparent suicide. Preliminary evidence says Morrison took his own life, although the coroner will need to confirm it."

Charlie's eyes finally left her and skittered toward Don and Alan, then away, guiltily. She frowned a little in confusion, noticing that Charlie's hair was damp too, and wondered what would prompt both of them to take a shower so late in the day.

Don noticed her expression, and sidled up next to her. "We had a little accident at the koi pond," he said quietly. "I'll tell you about it later. He raised his voice a little. "So what's next?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. I'm sure there will be a civil case filed against his estate on behalf of the _Fantasy_ victims. Now that the Topovs are out of the country, they'll be looking for someone to sue - but as far as Charlie is concerned, it's over. There's no need for him to testify - for either case." She caught Charlie's eye, and looked at him encouragingly. "You can simply work on recovering."

Charlie nodded vacantly; his expression still haunted, drifted over to the sofa, and sat and closed his eyes with a shudder. "I just talked to him, earlier today."

The others exchanged an alarmed glance, and Don blurted, "What?"

Charlie opened his eyes and stared at the floor. "He called me when I was at your apartment – he wanted to talk. I told him not to call back and hung up." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We were thinking the same thing, at the same time – almost as though we were connected." He raised his eyes, and looked at them in horror. "If I'd done it – we would be. Still connected – forever."

Alan shook his head, and crossed to the sofa, as Robin shot a concerned glance at Don. The senior Eppes sat down next to Charlie, and put his arm around him – he'd gotten away with a hug already, and shrink be damned, he was done with the 'no-contact' edict. "Charlie," he said heartily, "the fact that you didn't and he did, means that you're _not_ connected – you never were, in spite of what he wanted, and you never will be. There's a reason you chose to do what you did, and it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with your own inner strength."

Robin looked at Don, concern on her face, as Alan continued his pep talk. "What happened?"

Don put an arm around her and steered her toward the kitchen. "It's over now, but come in here, and I'll tell you about it."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

The next morning, Charlie, at Alan's prompting, called Megan to ask her for a referral for another therapist. She promised to make a few phone calls and then call him back, and near noon, she did. He was sitting at the desk in his room when the call came, staring at a picture of him and Amita together. As he lifted the phone to his ear, he reached out with his other hand and gently laid the picture facedown.

Megan's voice was bright and cheery. "Charlie, I've found someone that I think you'll like – she does private sessions and also runs a support group that I think will be very helpful once you're ready for that. She has a slot opening up in two weeks – you can stick with your current doctor until then, or… Larry and I had another idea. Why don't you come out to D.C. with us for a bit? You can help Larry wind down his project and help us pack. The week after next is Thanksgiving anyway –you probably don't have a session lined up that week, right? Come out and visit us – the change will do you good."

"I don't know," Charlie hedged. "Dad planned Thanksgiving dinner here…," His voice trailed off. Even he thought he sounded lame. Suddenly, getting away seemed just the thing - no one knew him there. He would be anonymous again, if only for a week or two. "I don't know. Maybe. I'll talk to Dad and call you back." Even as he hung up, though, he knew he'd already made up his mind.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don arrived at the Craftsman at dinnertime, to find Charlie sitting out by the koi pond, and Alan in a funk. Don looked at him, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Alan sighed. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. Charlie has decided he wants to go to visit Megan and Larry in D.C. I'm not sure why – they're moving here in two weeks, but he said he needs to get away, and he wants to go help them pack."

Don's face relaxed and he raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, Dad, that doesn't sound that bad to me. Maybe it will do him good. What's wrong with it?"

"Well, for one thing, I was thinking that Larry and Megan would be out here for Thanksgiving already, and I'd planned on them and you and Robin, and Charlie and Amita for dinner. I have no idea who's going to eat a twenty pound turkey – it's far too much for the three of us."

"So save it and make it when they get here," said Don mildly. "That's not why you're upset, though."

"Well," Alan admitted, "after yesterday, I hate to think of him so far away – he's still on pretty shaky ground, mentally."

"He'll be with friends," Don pointed out. "With Megan – it'll be like he's staying with his own personal therapist. And Larry – sometimes I think Larry gets through to him when no one else can."

"Maybe you're right," conceded Alan. He cocked his head at Don. "I wasn't cooking tonight – just ordering pizza. You okay with that?"

"Yeah." Don's eyes strayed to the figure by the pond. "I mainly came here to talk to Charlie." He hefted a plastic bag. "He left some things at my apartment yesterday."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie gazed at the koi, idly watching his own Goshiki swim serenely, confidently among the other fish. He'd had that confidence once. He wondered if he'd ever get it back. The thought of going back to campus, of facing all the other professors, all the students – they all knew. And Amita…

He heard footsteps on the lawn and turned his head, pulling his jacket protectively around him. Don was walking toward him, swinging a plastic bag gently, easily. His brother was another one who personified confidence. He'd been everything he should have been throughout the ordeal; Charlie had to admit. Supportive, protective – it almost seemed as though he cared. If Charlie didn't know better, hadn't heard what Don had said in some unguarded moments…

"How you doing?" Don's voice was casual but gentle, and he sat on the bench next to Charlie, leaning against the back, and like Charlie, his eyes on the pond.

"Okay," said Charlie. They both sat and stared at the fish for a moment. He felt Don's presence next to him – he could almost sense the strength rising from him, like heat from his skin. He had to be such a disappointment to him; yesterday was no exception. Don running to save him yet again, this time from himself, from his own weakness. Or maybe, it was weakness that kept him from pulling the trigger.

Don held up the bag. "I brought you something." He reached inside, fished around for a minute, and pulled out the snow globe. "I think you should take this back, Chuck. Mom would want you to have it." He held it out, and Charlie took it reluctantly and turned it over in his hands, watching the white flakes swirl. It was cold in D.C. this time of year – he might even see snow there.

Don's voice was soft, as he pulled something else from the bag – the ring box, with Amita's ring. "And this. I can still give to her for you, if you want, but you might want to hang on to it, reconsider, maybe. Why don't you hold it until you're thinking more clearly?"

Charlie made no move to take it, so Don rested it gently on his knee. Charlie stared at it for a moment; then picked it up with a sigh, as Don reached into the bag again. "That's okay," said Charlie, rising wearily, clutching the globe and the ring box. "You can keep the ball. It was yours."

Don paused with his hand still in the bag, and stared. "But I want you to have it."

Charlie smiled; a strange, very sad expression. "That's okay, Don. I know what it must have cost you to give that up, back then. You should keep it. Don't think I'm not grateful – I am. But you've done enough for me; I couldn't expect any more, and Dad doesn't either. You can quit trying so hard – just relax."

And with that odd little speech, he walked toward the house.

Don stared after him for a moment, then pulled the ball out of the bag, and turned it over in his fingers. He could remember the circumstances that surrounded the gift, as if they were yesterday. Don had been out of his mind with anticipation, had looked forward to the Dodgers game for weeks. He could still remember catching the ball, darting nimbly toward it with his glove, nearly being crushed between two burly, beer-drinking fans, but he'd caught it, and hung on. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to him that summer, and he almost didn't get the chance.

Charlie had become ill the day before, and by the morning of the game was so sick that his father had almost decided not to go. Don had glowered at his brother, he remembered, sending him hateful looks – Charlie managed to ruin everything, he had thought to himself. Thankfully, their mother had talked Alan into going, much to Don's relief, saying that she would take Charlie to the doctor to be checked; it was probably just the flu. As it turned out, the doctor had sent them on to the hospital, where a couple of hours later, the diagnosis of acute appendicitis had come back. Alan called home as soon as the game was over; Don still wasn't sure how he got the message – his mother was at the hospital, and those were the days before cell phones had hit the general population. He just remembered the look on his father's face, as he drove white-knuckled to Cedars-Sinai.

There, Don skulked in the hallway a few feet away, guiltily remembering his nasty glares that morning, and hearing snatches of low conversation between the surgeon and his parents, a strange scary-sounding word called 'peritonitis,' and the even more frightening 'life-threatening.' He'd remembered staring at the ball with tears in his eyes, thinking that he would gladly give up his treasure if only Charlie would be okay.

Now, over twenty years later, he stared at the ball, and felt exactly the same way. When he'd given it to Charlie the first time, his brother had accepted it gratefully, with stars in his painkiller-glazed eyes. Now, Charlie was giving it back – was the rejection symbolic? – volleying it back at him like a symbolic tennis ball. He seemed so stiff, so formal, and that peculiar little speech… He was holding Don at arm's length, and Don thought he knew why. '_I wish you'd never been born.'_ The hateful words reverberated in his memory, and God, how he wished he could take them back. Clearly, he hadn't patched things up as well as he'd hoped. Or perhaps Charlie's actions were generated by something more ominous; maybe he was keeping Don from getting too close because he still had thoughts of taking himself out of the game… Thoughtfully, Don pulled out his cell phone, and scrolled through the numbers until he found the one he wanted. A woman's voice answered after two rings. "Don?"

"Megan. I heard Charlie's coming out to see you. Listen, Megan, I need you to keep an eye on him for me. No – he's not ill, not physically anyway. Let me tell you what happened…"

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

End Chapter 47

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**


	48. Ecclesiastes 3:1

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 48: ****Ecclesiastes 3:1**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie stared out the window of the cab at the gently falling snowflakes. Sure enough, it was snowing in D.C.; it was early for it and it wasn't accumulating, but it was enough to remind him of the snow globe. The city looked gray and wet, subdued, and he shivered as he pulled his coat around him. He couldn't seem to get warm these days, even in L.A., and the Capitol city was much colder.

Larry came down to meet him at the apartment steps, and helped him up with his luggage – a small suitcase and a smaller travel bag. At some point during his stay in D.C., Larry had moved into Megan's one-bedroom second-story walkup; it was nice, and tastefully furnished, but small. Megan smiled at him brightly as he entered, and gave him a warm hug. "Charlie! How was your flight?"

"Okay," he murmured. Was it him, or did their smiles seem to contain a little too much wattage? Their expressions looked forced. Of course, it could very well be that they were uncomfortable. After all, he was tainted…

"You can put your luggage in the bedroom," said Megan. "Larry and I can sleep out here, on the pullout sofa -,"

Charlie's eyes widened. "Oh no – please. I'd rather stay out here – you two keep the bedroom."

He saw them exchange a glance, and then Megan said, "It's really no problem, Charlie. There's a television in here and in the bedroom -,"

"Really, I'll just sleep here," Charlie said firmly. "I'm already putting you out – don't make me feel worse about it than I do."

Both of them raised their eyebrows at that statement, and in spite of the flush of guilt, Charlie was seized with an odd, slightly hysterical inclination to laugh at their identical expressions. He swallowed it and excused himself, saying he needed to use the bathroom.

He shut the door behind him, and took a deep breath to steady himself as he looked in the mirror. His face looked thin, pale, with blue shadows under the eyes. This was a mistake, all of it, he thought. It was a mistake to come here, and it was a mistake for them to move back to L.A. on his account. He'd not only trashed his own life, he was disrupting the lives of everyone else.

He sighed, flushed the toilet to make his retreat seem plausible, and washed his hands. Then he took a deep breath, and opened the door.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Much to his surprise, the week seemed to pass quickly enough; in fact, there were moments when he even forgot. Larry was trying to wrap up as much of his work as he could and hand it off to a successor, and Charlie met with them both, and managed to point out some possible avenues of development for future consideration. For the first time since his kidnapping, he lost himself in mathematics, and it felt good, so right that when he lay down to sleep that night, he nearly cried from relief. That, at least, he still had – the ability to focus, to reason. He realized, that night, that he had to reclaim at least that part of his life. The only problem was; it meant he had to face returning to campus.

Things became more comfortable as the week progressed. At the beginning of his stay, however, he'd thought that he'd be ending his trip early. Larry and Megan weren't just accommodating; they hovered unbearably for the first few days. That behavior gradually tapered off, but Charlie still felt he was being watched – no, _examined_, like an odd insect in a jar. It didn't become clear to him why until the trip was nearly over.

They spent Thanksgiving Day packing, and finally, exhausted, sat down that evening with takeout turkey and stuffing dinners from a local supermarket, and some white wine. The wine kept coming even after the dinner was over, and they retired to the living room to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against furniture stacked with boxes. Megan smiled lazily, and swirled the wine in her glass. "This reminds me of college," she said. "Sitting on the floor in the dorm, drinking wine."

Larry smiled at her warmly. "I have some memories like that myself," he said. "Although my fellow physics majors tended toward cheap beer. And once, ouzo, which turned out to be a monumental mistake." He shuddered at the memory, and then looked over and smiled at Charlie. "Charles, on the other hand, didn't have much opportunity for that, youngster that he was. I must admit, Margaret kept a close eye on you."

His attempt to draw Charlie out fizzled; his friend was looking slightly tipsy, but apparently not in the mood for conversation – instead, he was gazing absently, sadly, at the boxes around them.

"Penny for your thoughts," said Megan, watching him.

Charlie blinked at them, and then sighed. "You shouldn't have done this," he said, his voice quiet, his speech slowed just a bit by the wine. "You both had a good thing going here – you shouldn't have to uproot yourselves, just because…"

A silence descended, and then Megan said quietly, but pointedly. "Just because you were raped?" Charlie winced, but she continued. "First of all, as much as we love you, Charlie, what happened to you is only part of the reason for our return. We have both decided that we miss L.A., that we miss not only our personal lives there, but our professional ones, too."

Larry nodded sagely. "She's absolutely correct. We can't tell you how much we're looking forward to returning. It really shouldn't matter where one resides, but somehow it does; that particular corner of the universe holds a certain appeal."

Megan shot him a wry but affectionate glance. "It's called '_home_,' Larry." She turned her gaze to Charlie, earnestly. "L.A. is home for us, Charlie, and yes, you're a part of that, but not all of it. Plus, have you ever considered that helping you might make us feel good? That is one guilt trip you don't need to take."

Charlie's eyes misted a little, and he took a drink of his wine and looked away to hide it. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate the support, I really do. I just feel -,"

He paused, and Megan prompted him. "Feel?"

Charlie sighed, and shook his head. "I don't know – you're right - guilty, I guess. Everyone is being overly kind, and I -,"

"Don't feel you deserve it?" Megan asked softly. "As if you did something wrong?" At his reluctant nod, she continued. "Charlie, how many people have told you by now that the assault wasn't your fault?"

Charlie's jaw worked, tightened with frustration. "It doesn't matter, when the end result is the same –when people are disgusted by you, when you're disgusted by yourself." He stopped uncomfortably, taken aback at the words that had just come out of his mouth; they revealed far more than he had wanted.

Megan didn't miss a beat. "By 'people,' I assume you mean Amita, because I'm sure no one else has given you that impression."

Charlie scowled into his wine. "They haven't, but they're just trying to be considerate. She's the only one who is being honest." He kept his eyes on his glass, but his expression faded, and was replaced by a look of desolation. "We were so happy before that, and I ruined it. I was so stupid – I should have picked up on Morrison." His face twisted in self-loathing. "I thought he was just being kind – and then I went bumbling off into an undercover operation where I had no good justification for being. I was asking for it."

Larry frowned at that, and Megan shook her head. "Charlie, you didn't ask for any of it. And Amita -," she paused and looked at Larry. "You should tell him," she said softly.

Charlie raised his eyes to see Larry squirm uncomfortably, then down the rest of his wine in a gulp. "Tell me what?"

Larry sighed, and rubbed the top of his head. "I refrained from speaking, for fear it would add to your pain at a vulnerable time. It appears, however, that Amita had doubts about your relationship prior to your kidnapping. When she was out here, she and Dane Rastenbaum seemed … friendlier than was appropriate."

"I called her on it," interjected Megan, her voice matter-of-fact, but edged with hint of indignation. "I told her if she didn't trust herself, she should take him off the project and send him back to L.A. She did, and we thought that was the end of it, until -," she trailed off and looked at Larry.

"Until I came upon them in her office at Cal Sci," Larry continued, his eyes beginning to spark. "You were in still in the hospital, and they were – embracing -,"

"Kissing," Megan corrected succinctly. Anger was flashing in her eyes, too, but it faded to sadness as she looked at Charlie. He'd looked away from them, staring blankly at the wall, and silence descended.

Larry looked stricken, miserable. "I'm sorry, Charles -," then he broke off and whispered to Megan, "I told you we shouldn't have told him that."

Charlie seemed to rouse himself, and looked at them and his expression, oddly enough, seemed to contain a new glimmer of conviction. "No, I'm glad you told me," he said.

Larry was shaking his head now, and his hands with it; in his distress, he had planted one on his cheek and one on the top of his head, as if trying to hold it in place. "No, there was no call for that-,"

"Larry," interrupted Charlie, gently but firmly. "I mean it. It hurts, of course, but in a way, it's a relief – to know that there were problems before the assault. It means our breakup wasn't entirely my fault – and that's a little easier to live with."

Megan sighed with mingled relief and exasperation. "Now we just need you to recognize that _none_ of it was your fault, and we'll be getting somewhere." She regarded him silently for a moment. "Don told us about the koi pond," she finally said.

'_So that was it_,' thought Charlie. '_That's why they were watching me so closely at the beginning of my stay._' He cleared his throat. "Then he also told you that I decided against – doing anything." He looked at them intently. "Look, I'll admit, I've got a long way to go with my recovery. I'm dreading going back to campus. But I _am_ planning on recovering."

Megan smiled, and poured Larry more wine, then raised her glass. "It's Thanksgiving – let's think about what we're thankful for."

"I'm thankful to be here, with good friends," said Charlie, his voice soft and husky with emotion as he raised his glass.

Larry's distressed expression had faded to a gentle smile, as he and Megan lifted their own glasses. "I can't think of a more apt sentiment, myself," Larry said, and the delicate clink of glasses sounded like a benediction. As they sipped, a quiet settled that seemed no longer strained, but peaceful.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Alan sat alone in the Craftsman, pondering his dinner. It was still warm and smelled delicious; he'd poured himself a glass of wine to accompany it. He sat there, however, sidetracked by his thoughts. He'd told himself as he sat that he should think of something for which to be grateful; it was Thanksgiving, after all. He was having a hard time of it though; all he could think of were happier times, and the fact that a month or two ago he would have figured to have a crowd at the table today, a crowd that included his sons and their significant others. Charlie and Amita had seemed so close; it seemed inconceivable that their relationship had fractured, as brittle as glass, under the strain of what had happened to Charlie. And Charlie himself – would he ever recover from that horrific experience? Alan had to admit, he'd nearly worried himself sick since his youngest had gone to D.C.

He'd planned on having Don, Robin and the team over – had even gone ahead and decided to roast the turkey, and had it in the oven when Don had called to tell him they'd picked up a hot case, and probably wouldn't be over that evening. He had no choice but the cook the thing anyway, and told them he would package up the food and bring it by the office later. Now he sat there, alone, worrying about Don on his case, worrying about Charlie, trying mightily to conjure up gratitude instead of depression.

The phone rang, and he set his wine glass down sharply and jumped up to answer it, his heart leaping painfully as he heard Charlie's voice on the other end.

"Charlie! Is everything all right?"

Charlie's voice sounded lazy, more relaxed than it had in weeks, and Alan felt the tightness in his shoulders ease just a bit. "Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. We're done packing and we just ate dinner. The moving van's coming tomorrow, and we're going to catch our flights home in the afternoon."

"You're doing okay, then?"

"Yeah, I'm good Dad." Alan could hear the inflection in Charlie's voice, one that gave deeper meaning to the simple phrase. "We had a good week – this was the right thing for me to do – coming out here. It helped a lot."

Alan took a deep, relieved breath. "That's good, son, I'm glad. I'll be looking forward to seeing you – all of you. Tell them to stop by for dinner tomorrow night – I'm afraid I'm going to have more leftovers than I can deal with."

Charlie promised him they would, and Alan hung up the phone, his heart feeling considerably lighter. As he did so, the doorbell rang, and when he answered the door, he found Robin on the doorstep.

She looked slightly apologetic, and held out a bottle of wine. "I hope I'm still invited," she said. "Don told me that you were facing a dinner for six by yourself, and -,"

"Of course, of course," Alan beamed, ushering her in. He'd always liked Robin and was convinced that she was good for Don, and the fact that she wanted to come and eat dinner with him pleased him to no end. "I could certainly use some help. I think I made enough for twelve, not six."

He poured her some wine and warmed up his plate while he fixed hers, thinking that perhaps there was something to be thankful for after all.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

The turkey and stuffing ended up in two casseroles, which became part of an impromptu welcome home party the next night. Don and the team had spent Thanksgiving night out on a raid, and Alan never did get a chance to bring them dinner. Instead, he decided to have them over the next night, when Charlie returned, along with Larry and Megan. The D.C. contingent arrived at the Craftsman at four, L.A. time, and Alan was relieved to see that Charlie looked much better. He still looked thin, but he hadn't lost any more weight, and possibly had even put on a pound or two, and he had some color in his face. More importantly, the pain in his eyes had diminished – there was a quiet somberness still, but the look of dull despair was gone. He even smiled once or twice, and Alan felt his heart twinge almost painfully when it happened; it had been so long since he'd seen it.

A knock sounded at the door, and Charlie went to answer it, and was met with broad grins by Colby and David. They trooped in, Liz behind them, and Colby clapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Lookin' good, Whiz Kid," he said heartily, beaming, and Charlie grinned back. Don and Robin showed up moments later, and the noise level rose in the room as beer and wine was served, and conversations flowed. There was an ease, a sense of happiness in the place that had been missing for weeks, and Alan was keenly and gratefully aware of the contrast, smiling as he listened to Megan verbally sparring with David and Colby, as if she'd never left. The mood almost seemed euphoric, until the doorbell rang again, and Mildred Finch stepped through the door.

It wasn't Millie who prompted the uncomfortable silence, however; it was Amita, behind her. Everyone stared for just a split second; then the conversation started again, but at a much lower level. Alan saw a look of pain cross Charlie's face, and he felt a pang of regret. When Millie had called the house earlier that day, looking for Charlie and Larry, Alan had invited her over on the spur of the moment, and she had delightedly accepted, saying she would catch a ride with Amita. She obviously didn't know about their breakup, and a sudden impulse told Alan not to say anything. Maybe it would be good for Amita to see Charlie looking so much better; he thought to himself, maybe Amita's presence would spark a recovery in their relationship.

He hurried to get them a glass of wine, as Millie headed straight for Charlie and Larry, who were standing in the corner. Amita trailed behind her, uncomfortably. "Professors!" Millie exclaimed, smiling. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you. I have a proposition for you, Charlie – I'd like you to consider a return to teaching next term. Professor Fleinhardt will be starting again, won't you, Larry? It would be perfect timing for you, too, Charlie, as long as you feel you're ready for it. Dr. Ramanujan has put together some syllabi for the courses we're offering – she's even given you a head start."

Charlie glanced at Amita and then looked away, but not before Millie caught the wounded look in his eyes. She frowned, looking at him uncertainly, then glanced at Amita, her eyes widening slightly as she caught sight of Amita's ring-less left hand.

Amita spoke stiffly, her voice cool, professional. "I can meet with you any time in the next few weeks, of course, the earlier the better – it will give you more time to prepare the coursework."

Charlie had managed to compose his features by the time Millie looked back at him. "I'll think about it," he said evenly. "I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Fair enough," Millie said heartily, recovering her own composure as Alan handed her and Amita each a glass of wine. "Thank you, Alan." She grabbed Alan's arm, steering him toward the kitchen. "We need to catch up. How is work going?"

Her absence left the three of them - Larry, Charlie, and Amita - staring uncomfortably at each other. Charlie felt trapped; the kitchen would have been a normal haven, if Millie weren't in there. Charlie had seen the surprised look on her face as she realized that Amita was no longer wearing her engagement ring, and Millie was now undoubtedly pumping his father for information. He could hardly walk out the door; it would be rude, although he suddenly longed to retreat to the koi pond. In the end, Amita saved him.

"Excuse me," she murmured, "I'm going to go say hello to Liz."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Charlie didn't make it out to the pond until Saturday morning, although he'd reached a point halfway through the evening where he'd have given nearly anything to retreat. It was all still a little too much; the social setting overwhelming, he was pushing too hard. Amita and Millie had departed immediately after dinner, and for a while, relieved, he'd done pretty well – in fact, things almost seemed _normal _again. He joked a little with Colby and David, and chatted with Megan and Larry, feeling if not entirely comfortable, at least in control, until fatigue had set in.

Now, in the morning light, he faced a choice. The decision wasn't _if_ he should return to campus – he'd already made that decision, in Washington, D.C. The decision was _when_ – he still wasn't entirely certain he was ready for it, prepared to face the world. He knew, though, in his heart, that prolonging the return would be pointless, and might even slow his recovery; he'd have another whole semester to stew over what had happened instead of starting to try to move forward. In the end, it wasn't much of a decision. He opened his cell phone, and dialed Millie.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

End Chapter 48


	49. Giving Back

**Title: ****High Society**

**Chapter 49: Giving Back**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

He went to campus the very next week. Larry offered to go with him for support, but Charlie declined. It was like diving in the pool, he had decided – he didn't want to ease in bit by painful bit – he wanted to jump in the deep end, and get it over with all at once.

That turned out to be an overly optimistic hope, he realized, as the week progressed. He could feel the eyes on him, caught the averted gazes and the stifled whispers as he turned his head, the polite, contrived attempts to look the other way. His colleagues had mixed reactions, a few came up and shook his hand, murmuring how glad they were that he was back, showing support. Others, uncomfortable, reacted like most of the students, and said nothing, instead self-consciously trying to dance around the elephant in the room. Two of the more reclusive professors didn't react at all, and Charlie had to wonder if they even read or watched the news. From Dane Rastenbaum, he received a knowing smirk as they passed in the hall, which Charlie tried hard to ignore. The most poignant reaction came at the end of the day on Tuesday.

He was in his office – his haven, when he heard a timid knock at the door. A pale, thin, painfully backward girl, a third year student, stood at the door, twisting her hands nervously. She was the type the other students would ridicule behind her back – geeky, shy. On her best days, her appearance prompted a smile; thick glasses, frumpy clothing, and bad hair turned her into a caricature. He recognized her from his Applied Differential Equations class the spring before. Janice something – Janice Bowers.

He greeted her and motioned for her to come in, and she stepped forward, haltingly; then stopped. "Dr. Eppes, sir – I don't mean to keep you sir, but – well, I just wanted to say that there are some of us who know what you've been through."

She looked at him meaningfully, and suddenly, as Charlie grasped what she was insinuating, her odd appearance melted away. In an instant, her persona was transformed from comic to one filled with pathos, and Charlie could only wonder how much of her personality had been warped by what she'd gone through. "I'm glad you're back, sir," she said, then turned and fled before he had the chance to do anything other than call a 'thank-you,' after her.

It was a revelation, and it occurred to him for the first time that there were others out there, as close as the Cal Sci campus, who had also had to deal with assault, sexual or otherwise. He carried the thought with him to his first session with his new therapist, Dr. Deborah Burns, the next morning. He liked her immediately, and the session went well. Still, he wasn't prepared for her final request.

"Dr. Eppes," she said, "I think you're making very good progress, but I think you would benefit from our group sessions on Wednesday nights. I hold them right here at the offices – there's a larger room downstairs. It's at eight p.m., and I highly recommend that you attend."

Charlie had been about to tell her no, that he wasn't quite ready for that, when he remembered Janice Bowers. There had been something familiar about the girl, and he realized abruptly what that was – her mannerisms, her appearance – thin, pale; uncertain, in retreat from society. He could be describing himself. He looked at Dr. Burns, and said, "Yes, okay, I think I can make it."

"Good," she beamed. "You can bring a friend for support if you wish; many of them do, especially at first."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

That evening, he glanced sideways as he walked from the parking lot toward the building. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Oh, it's no problem, Charlie, it's my pleasure," Megan replied with a heartfelt smile. "I'm glad you liked Debi – she's great, isn't she?"

"Yeah." Charlie nodded, as he held the door for her. "She's much easier to talk to than the other therapist."

In spite of his assurances, he fell silent as they approached the meeting room. It had been unbearably difficult to talk about his experiences with a single professional, and now he faced a group of strangers. There was a sign-in sheet at a table by the door, and as he looked at the large group in the room beyond, he felt a sudden urge to bolt. They were nearly all women, he realized; there was only one other man, and for all he knew, the man was there to support someone else. He hesitated just a bit too long; Dr. Burns had seen him and strode forward. "Charlie – Megan, welcome. Just sign in.

Dr. Burns stepped closer, and as he signed the sheet and straightened, she said in a low voice, "Don't be put off by the lack of men. The sad truth is; there are several male victims in this area, but none of them that want to admit they were sexually assaulted. Most of them will never seek treatment, or press charges – and those are the ones we know about. I need to tell you, your presence tonight, as a man, will do so much to help the women victims here. I try to get across to them that rape is not about sex, it's about violence and control, and when they understand it's not just limited to women, I'm sure it will help reinforce that message."

She sighed, and looked around the room. "I'm sorry it's so crowded. I'd like to start another session, but our facility here is booked by other therapists for their group sessions - I had to fight for one evening a week. I've had a hard time finding a room elsewhere that's suitable. Go ahead and find a seat. How much you participate is up to you – you can simply observe if you wish."

Her last statement made Charlie feel a bit more relieved. He didn't need to talk if he didn't want. He was here with Megan; maybe the others would think that he was there supporting her. Well, most of them anyway – as they moved into the room, he recognized, with a slight feeling of shock, three Cal Sci students, and a student teacher. The young man, too – now that Charlie took a closer look, he realized that he'd seen him before also. Not in any of his classes, but possibly Amita's or Larry's….

Suddenly uncomfortable again, he found a seat with Megan in the second row. The chairs were arranged in a circle to facilitate discussion, but there were enough people there that a second tier had to be set up, and those people had to look over the shoulders of the participants in the first row. Or hide behind them, thought Charlie a little guiltily, as he settled in behind a tall woman. Not all of the second row was filled, but Dr. Burns was right, the group probably was a little larger than was optimal for that kind of discussion. As Charlie and Megan found their seats, Dr. Burns began the discussion.

"Just a reminder, first names are used here, and participation is completely voluntary," she said pleasantly. "My name is Debi. Would anyone like to start?"

A woman in her twenties raised her hand, and at Debi's nod said, "I'm Laura, and I'm a victim." She was obviously a veteran of the group, she seemed relatively comfortable, and briefly went over what had happened to her, and then launched into her intended topic, which was how she was feeling at the current time, and her struggle to deal with the feelings of anger that had recently erupted.

"Anger is very common, and a normal response to what happened," assured Debi. "You have every right to feel angry. What you need to do is to work on channeling that anger into something useful, rather than destructive."

One by one, others raised their hands, a few of them apparently speaking for the first time. All of them introduced themselves by name, and all of them identified themselves as a victim. One girl's mother spoke up, addressing Debi. "Why do you all say that you're 'a victim'? Don't you want them to get over _feeling_ like a victim?"

Debi nodded. "Good question. The fact is, most victims of rape or sexual assault blame themselves. Getting them to admit that they were a _victim_, that they did nothing to bring this on themselves; is a first step to letting go of that guilt. We have to admit that something is wrong – but not with us, before we can move forward and learn to cope with what happened."

The discussion continued, and Charlie's gaze began to wander a bit. As it did, he noticed with discomfort that he was being observed – more than once, the students from Cal Sci looked his way. Most of them were also sitting the second row, and looked as uncomfortable as he was with the situation. He scanned the group, looking for Janice Bowers, but didn't see her. She could benefit from this too, he was certain; he was going to have to mention it to her. He glanced sideways, and caught the eyes of one of the students on him – the young man, and all of a sudden, he felt a huge rush of shame.

He realized abruptly, that those young victims weren't looking at him out of mere curiosity – they were trying to connect with someone they admired, looking for reassurance. He should be giving them an example, instead of skulking in the second row behind the tallest person he could find. He could feel his throat tighten and his heart start to pound at the mere thought of speaking, but he also knew that if he ever intended to look at himself with anything approaching self-esteem again, he needed to take on the challenge. He sat up abruptly and raised his hand, ignoring Megan's surprised expression as she turned to look at him.

Debi Burns' eyebrows rose, but she merely said, "Yes, Charlie."

He stood, slowly, his heart thumping hard, but when he spoke, his voice was level and clear.

"I'm Charlie, and I'm a victim."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

Dr. Burns made her way over after the session, and shook Charlie's hand warmly. "I can't tell you how much good you did here tonight," she said. "You have no idea."

He managed a smile. Talking about his ordeal was excruciating, but he'd made it through, and now was actually feeling a sense of relief, of purpose, that he hadn't thought he'd ever feel again. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something," he said. "We may have a classroom we can use on the Cal Sci campus if you wanted to hold an additional session there each week. I'd have to sponsor the activity, and I'd have to get approval from Cal Sci, of course -,"

Debi's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful – it's a great location for many of the regulars, and we might even get some more participation. I know there are several students in this group – it would probably be more convenient for them to attend there."

Charlie frowned a little as he thought of Janice. "What about other students – people who might want to come who aren't patients of this practice?"

"They're welcome – there's a group session fee, but they can pay it when they show up. Let me know what your administrator says – I can even give you a copy of a flyer to publicize it on a campus bulletin board, if you want."

A few minutes later, as Charlie walked with Megan back out to the car, he looked at her. "I'm sorry I kept you afterward – thanks for coming with me."

"Oh, Charlie," said Megan, smiling and giving him a pat on the shoulder. "It was no problem – although you didn't need me. You did just great by yourself."

He smiled back. "Actually, I was shaking in my shoes – but it felt good." He sighed, and took a deep breath as he looked at the night sky, feeling in control for the first time since the kidnapping. "It really felt good."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

That sense of purpose got him through the next week, and through the first group session on the Cal Sci campus. They had a good turnout from both students and non-students alike, and he'd even managed to get Janice to show up. She hadn't spoken during the session; Charlie figured it might be a while before she attempted that, but she had thanked him quietly afterward for inviting her. Alan was beside himself; he was proud and excited that Charlie had chosen to channel his ordeal into something so positive, and the whole experience had left Charlie with a glow that had eclipsed any other issues. As the excitement waned however, he could feel them, deep in his heart. There were two things aside from the assault, like jagged rocks under the water, which still filled him with pain every time they surfaced. Saturday morning, they were on his mind as he sat at the koi pond, and pondered what he had lost.

The first thing, obviously, was Amita. She had been cordial, but stiffly professional since his return to campus. Charlie had given her the ring back, and told her that he was willing to listen if she ever reconsidered, but even he had to admit the words were hollow. He had no doubt that their relationship was over; he'd never felt so uncomfortable in her presence, and was sure she felt the same way. The gulf between them, instead of diminishing with time, had widened to a chasm. The sense of loss left a deep ache in his heart, but there was another pain even more profound - the realization that his relationship with his brother was suffering the same fate.

If Charlie hadn't acknowledged that before, he did at Alan's impromptu party at the Craftsman, while talking with David and Colby. He suddenly was aware how much he missed working with them, with his brother, being part of the team. That would never be the same again, he recognized – now that he knew how Don really felt about him. Any invitation from his brother to work on a case would stem from one of two things – either a charitable act on his brother's part, or the simple need to solve a case – nothing else. He'd deluded himself for years that Don felt the same need to connect that he did, but recent events had exposed that illusion. Don not only had no need to connect, he apparently had barely managed to put up with him. Charlie had hardly seen him at all the last week – as soon as Don saw that he was regaining his feet, he had made himself scarce, no doubt feeling that his duty was finished. Charlie snorted softly – the irony of the case name that had started it all – the _Fantasy_ case – suddenly hit home. That was exactly what his relationship with Don had been – a fantasy.

He heard footsteps, and knew without turning his head who it was, although his eyes shot an irresistible glance sideways. Don strolled toward him, tossing a ball nonchalantly in the air. Charlie looked away; then did a double take. It was the baseball, he realized, the one he had given back to Don, and he was filled with the sudden conviction that Don was going to try to give it back to him again. Damn it, didn't Don know when to let something die a natural death?

Don settled on the bench beside him, turning the ball over in his hands. "We never got a chance to finish our conversation, a few weeks ago," he said. "I still owe you a baseball."

"I told you to keep it." Charlie tried to force the frustration out of his voice. Why did Don insist on making this harder than it already was?

Don seemed to ignore him, and began lightly tossing the ball up and down with one hand. "Dad said you started a support group on campus. He's pretty proud of you." He tossed the ball for a moment longer then abruptly stopped, and looked at Charlie. "I know you got your clearance back," he said quietly. "And I know why you stuck with the undercover operation, when you had a chance to back out. I wanted to tell you I appreciate what you did, and I thought that if you have some extra time, maybe you'd want to – you know, help out on a case or two."

It was a nice thing for him to say, Charlie had to admit, but he wasn't deluded. Don was still being the dutiful son, still trying to show his support, even though he didn't mean it. "Don, I told you the last time we talked that you can relax. You don't need to try so hard."

To his surprise, Don's eyes flashed, and he retorted angrily. "Yeah, and what is that supposed to mean?"

Charlie flinched at the tone, but shot back, frustration winning the battle. "I know what you really think of me, okay? You do a great job of hiding it, and it's nice that you do that for Dad's sake, but I know now, so you don't have to keep up the charade for me."

Bewilderment crept into Don's tone, along with the anger. "Charade? What in the hell are you talking about, Charlie?"

Charlie mimicked his voice as best he could. "'_I wish you'd never been born,_' he quoted. "And how about, '_sick, miserable, disgusting pig?_'" The words spilled out bitterly, and he stopped, chest heaving with emotion, and looked away. His next words were quieter and more controlled, but his voice shook. "You don't have to pretend anymore. I understand you'll never feel the same way about me that I do about you, and I don't need to be patronized. I'm not a child."

"Charlie-," Don began and then stopped, but his shocked tone made Charlie steal another glance. Don looked truly hurt, dismayed. God, he could act. Charlie looked away again, knowing if he kept his eyes on his brother's face, he just might believe him, in spite of himself. Don continued, quietly. "That second thing – I never said that to you."

"Yes, you did." The moment came back with such painful force that Charlie had to close his eyes. He could still feel the concrete floor, the pain, the despair; hear his brother's harsh words. "You said it when you found me at the complex." He swallowed, and opened his eyes, staring dully at the pond. "I don't blame you really."

Conviction had come into Don's tone, and Charlie felt him lean closer, earnestly. "Charlie, I wasn't saying that to you – that was directed at Morrison. When I realized what he'd done to you – well, I flipped. I should have stayed there with you, but all I could think about was finding him, wherever he was, and ending his miserable life." As he spoke, Charlie could hear the hate creep into his words, until the last phrase grated out between clenched teeth. He chanced another sidelong glance, and Don gripped his arm, his eyes burning. "I swear to you, Charlie, I wasn't talking about you. You have no reason to be ashamed."

Charlie looked away again, feeling the almost painful pressure of Don's grip. "You can't deny the first thing, though. What you said – the fact that you punched me – that was driven by anger."

"Exactly right – anger," Don said, heatedly. "Let's face it, we've got some issues – but it doesn't mean I don't love you." He sighed and released his grip, and his voice grew quiet, sad, weary. "I can't tell you how lousy I felt after that – I knew I stepped over a line, and I wasn't sure how to fix it. And then, before I got a good chance to try, everything… happened. I still owe you an apology for that, Buddy. I told you at the koi pond, and I'll tell you again – I love you."

Charlie felt tears sting his eyes, but he kept facing forward, as Don continued, quietly. "Years ago, when I gave you this ball, I didn't do it grudgingly. I didn't do it because Mom told me to. We were all so worried about you that day, and I remembered thinking that I would give anything, even my most prized possession, if you would be okay. I'm giving it back to you now, Charlie, because I want you to be okay. I want_ us_ to be okay."

He held the ball out, and Charlie stared at it for a moment, suspended in the sunlight by his brother's strong arm, then looked up into Don's eyes. What he saw there was unadulterated love and conviction, and he knew suddenly that Don was telling the truth. "I love you, too," he said softly, a deep sense of joy filling him, as he reached for the ball. Don held the ball tightly as he touched it, and for a moment, they gripped it together, as Don looked into Charlie's face, searchingly. For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, thought Charlie, he felt them connect, as if the baseball was some kind of magical talisman, a conduit to each other's heart. Then Don released the ball into his hand, and Charlie felt his brother's love come with it.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

**"High Society" Complete**

**……………………………………………………………………………………………**

**A/N: The Raccoons are pleased and humbled that so many readers became**** invested in this story. (FC is currently trying to talk SG into a sequel; you might want to help me out, here.) Thanks for wading through some time-consuming plot development while waiting for the good stuff!  
**


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